


Baseball Metaphors

by leiascully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-09-06 22:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16841368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: When you run into your ex, you pretend you're dating your partner.  Sometimes things spiral from there.





	1. Chapter 1

They’re having lunch in a bar on the way back from a visit to a local hospital where a couple of doctors wanted Scully’s professional opinion on an atypical presentation of some disease or another. The place is popular and there weren’t any tables, so they’re sitting at the bar. Scully has a soda water with a lime to make it look like they’re legitimate, although Mulder supposes his iced tea could be something stronger. He’s preparing to wax rhapsodic about his current theory on the connection between the inoculations that rendered the corpses in the boxcar unrecognizable and the government conspiracy that exploits scientific progress when Scully looks up from her salad and says, “Fuck” quietly but clearly. 

“What?” Mulder asks. 

She leans toward him, murmuring into his ear, her hand on his thigh to steady herself. “Don’t turn around, but the people who just walked in - I used to date one of them.”

“Okay,” he says. 

Her hair brushes his cheek. “We were already growing apart when I got abducted,” she whispers. “And then afterwards, I just never called him.”

“That’s rough,” Mulder says. 

She glances over. “He’s coming this way. And he’s with someone.”

“Dana?” a man says brightly, and Mulder turns to see a perfectly ordinary looking white guy in his mid-30s. He might as well have “Suburban” printed on the name badge clipped to his polo shirt. “Wow.”

“Hello, Ethan,” she says, and Mulder can see her smile is pained. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I heard you got…I heard you were away for a while.”

“I was,” she says. “But I’m okay now.” Her hand trembles a little where it’s still on Mulder’s thigh. He puts his hand over hers.

“Where are my manners,” Ethan says. “This is Jenny.” He reaches back to put his arm around the brunette that’s with him. She’s wearing a sweater set and Mary Kay pink lipstick. Her hair curls around her face. When she smiles, Mulder sees white picket fences. 

“Hi,” Jenny says, drawing out the word a little. “It’s nice to meet you, Dana. Ethan said when we met you were the one who got away. I guess I’ve got to thank you for leaving such a good man behind.” She puts her fingers possessively on Ethan’s chest. There’s an engagement ring on her finger. Scully’s eyes flicker to it.

Ethan chuckles. “You know, I was going to give that you,” he says to Scully, “but I don’t think it’s actually your style at all. But it looks perfect on Jenny. Even my grandmother said so, and it was her ring.” He grins down at her. 

“It’s lovely,” Scully says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Congratulations.”

“Congratulations,” Mulder drawls. He sticks out his hand, the one that isn’t pressed over Scully’s. “Fox Mulder. I guess I’m the one who caught the one that got away.” 

“Oh, wow,” Ethan says. “She doesn’t work too much for you?”

“I really admire her dedication to her career, actually,” Mulder says, looking down at Scully and giving her the smile he used to use in the pubs at university, the one that made even Phoebe smirk back. Scully’s used to him, but her cheeks get pink. He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear with one finger. “She’s going to be running the FBI one day.”

“That’s great,” Ethan says. “How’d you two meet?”

“I’m a profiler,” Mulder says easily. 

“He explains their lives and I explain their deaths,” Scully says, rebounding. She leans into him a little. “And he’s absolutely brilliant.”

“That’s so nice,” Jenny says. “Oh, you two will have to come out with us sometime. Double date. What do you say, honey?” She pats Ethan’s chest. 

“Definitely,” Ethan says. 

Mulder reaches into his pocket. “Here’s my card,” he says. “Just give us a call. We’d love to have dinner.”

“We’d love it,” Scully echoes. 

“Perfect,” Jenny says. “Well, we’ll leave you to it. Can’t spend too long away from the office - who knows what the interns will get up to?” She laughs. 

“Enjoy your lunch,” Mulder says. “And give us a call. We’ll make it happen.”

“Can’t wait,” Scully says smoothly. She’s still blushing a little and leaning into the shelter of his body. Her fingers tighten slightly on his thigh as Ethan and Jenny walk away and then release. He lets her hand slip out from under his.

“You’re my boyfriend now?” she murmurs. 

He leans down, mimicking her earlier pose, his lips just barely brushing her cheek as she eases closer. “It seemed expedient,” he says. “And after that engagement ring fiasco, I couldn’t leave you to fend for yourself.”

“Throwing yourself bodily in front of an engagement ring isn’t as impressive as a bullet,” she says.

“Still goes through the heart,” he says. “But we can always break up before our dinner date, if you’d prefer.”

“I have to honor your sacrifice, don’t I?” she says. She kisses him on the cheek. “Thank you, Mulder.”

“You’re welcome,” he says.


	2. Chapter 2

He picks her up at 7. He knocks on the door, leaning casually against it. He changed his suit out for jeans and a blazer. He considered a obnoxious tie, but settled for leaving his top couple of buttons open and dabbing cologne on his sternum. He looks good and he’s feeling pretty damn smug about it. It’s been a while since he dressed up for a date, and he kind of wants to impress Scully. Not because of whatever little frisson shivers between them from time to time, but because she’s always so unflappable. After nearly four years together, she thinks she knows him inside and out.

Scully opens the door and he smirks at her and then whistles. She smiles up at him.

“Looking good, Mulder,” she says.

“Likewise,” he tells her. She looks through her lashes at him, a touch of color in her cheeks and a knowing curl to her lips. She’s wearing a little black dress with a lace overlay, and her hair is curling around her face. She’s wearing more makeup than usual. He usually doesn’t notice how long her lashes are, or how blue her eyes look when she’s not glaring at him.

She laughs.

“What?” he asks.

“Mulder, you just said ‘wow’,” she tells him.

“No, I didn’t,” he says, and now he’s blushing.

She shrugs with one shoulder. “I guess we both dressed to impress.” She turns to go into her apartment. He trails behind her.

“So you are impressed.”

“You look nice,” she says, gathering up her purse and slipping her wallet and a lipstick into it. She checks the safety of her weapon and then adds that too. He can’t fault her. They always run into trouble somehow.

“Nice,” he grumbles. “I look 'nice’.”

“What were you going for, delectable?” she teases. She picks up a bottle of perfume, sprays it in the air, waits, and then walks through the cloud of scent, then dabs more on her pulse points.

“Delectable works,” he says. “I’m just trying to knock this double date out of the park, Scully.”

“Baseball metaphors will definitely make that happen,” she says. “Unless you’re trying to get to first base.”

“They’re supposed to believe we’re madly, dazzlingly, absolutely more in love than they are and I’m not allowed to get to first base?” he says, perching on the back of her couch.

She looks at him under her lashes again. “Maybe first base,” she says. “And you can put your hand on my back.”

“If I put my arm around you, should I rub your arm with my thumb like I can’t help my grotesque public displays of affection?” he asks.

She cocks her head at him. “I can’t imagine you think displays of affection are grotesque, Mulder. I definitely see you as the demonstrative type.”

“When have I ever demonstrated,” he asks, and she purses her lips at him. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s go on a date.” He opens her door and ushers her through it. “After you, dear.”

“Definitely not 'dear’,” she decides, locking the door behind them

“Honey,” he suggests. “Sweetheart. Baby. Sugar.”

She makes a face. “I can’t believe that 'baby’ actually sounds like the best option.”

“Don’t worry,” he assures her as they walk out of her building. “I’ll make it sexy rather than infantilizing.”

She sighs. “There are downsides to pretending to date a psychologist.”

“Say it ain’t so,” he says, opening the car door for her.


	3. Chapter 3

They park near the restaurant. It's exactly the kind of place Mulder figured Ethan would pick: chichi, but not too pricey. It'll have a French-inspired menu full of poorly executed dishes and puff pastry that'll be nothing like the patisserie he remembers from a trip to France long ago, when he was ten and Sam was six and his parents still loved each other sometimes. 

"Odds that the sections of the menu are Paris-themed," he says to Scully.

"I'm not gonna take that bet," she says. "Ethan always wanted to go to Paris."

"I'm sure he did," Mulder says. 

"A lot of people want to go to Paris," she says, and he thinks the color in her cheeks is more than cosmetics. 

"No one says you can't want to go to Paris, Scully," he tells her. "But there's a difference between people who want to and people who actually go."

"You're a bit of a snob, Mulder," she says.

He shrugs. "I'll take you to the catacombs someday."

"I don't think we could justify that one the expense reports," she says.

"There's got to be a ghost around there somewhere," he muses. "Hunchback of Notre Dame. Phantom of the Opera. Something like that."

"I think those cases are pretty well cracked," she says. 

They stare at each other.

"Stop putting this off," he tells her.

She sighs. "Can you blame me?"

"No," he says. "Of all the gin joints, he had to walk into that one with his adorable new fiancée. He could have at least had the grace not to say he would have given you his grandmother's ring." 

"I did think that was unnecessary," she murmurs. 

"Hey," he says. "Chin up. You met my ex. At least he didn't pretend to blow us up." 

"She was an experience," Scully agrees. "Not one I'd care to repeat."

"So let's go see if we can't play our part as besotted idiots with successful careers that don't involve supervising any interns," he suggests. "You ready, baby?"

She manages not to recoil. "Ready as I'll ever be, hot stuff."

"Scully!" he says, charmed.

"That really doesn't work," she says, opening her door and climbing out of the car.

"It could," he says, getting out and following her. "I'm hot stuff."

"Of course you are," she says in that indulgent way that means she just wants him to shut up.

"I'm hot stuff," he insists. He catches her by the hand and pulls her close, slipping his arm around her. Her body is pressed against his, her hands gripping the lapels of his jacket to steady herself. "See?"

"I'm sure it hasn't escaped your attention that we're in full view of anyone inside the restaurant," she says, gazing up at him through her eyelashes. 

"Of course it hasn't," he murmurs. "How are you feeling about first base?"

"No tongue," she says, and slides her hands around the back of his neck as she pulls his head down and kisses him. A spark jumps from her lips to his. He's so shocked that he nearly lets go of her, but she's still holding his jacket. He adjusts his arms around her, pulling her closer. Her lips part and he has to break the kiss before he really does drop her. 

"No French kissing until Paris, huh?" he says, trying to recover himself. 

"Catacombs is really the most romantic suggestion you've got?" she asks. "I mean, I know how you feel about cemeteries."

"That's low, baby," he says. "Tell me you don't want to kiss the tombstone of Oscar Wilde."

"I can think of better things to kiss," she says, releasing his lapels. She pats his chest absently. "Are you ready for dinner?"

"As ready as I'll be," he says.

She reaches for his hand. "Besotted colleagues with no interest in the paranormal."

"None at all," he says. "Totally normal law enforcement professionals. Two badges, one shared dream."

"Which is what?" she asks in a low voice as they enter the restaurant.

"I didn't have time to get a ring," he says, "but I think happy suburban family is right on the money. I mean, a sweater set like that." 

"Don't you dare," she says. 

"Oh, no, I never propose on the first date, Scully." He leans down to whisper in her ear. "But rest assured I'm ready to play the game." 

"Yeah, you're known for your teamwork," she says, her lips nearly against his cheek. 

"I've gotten time in the penalty box before," he says, "but I'm great at doubles."

"Hmm," she says as Ethan waves at them. "Full coverage, I'm sure."

"Give me an opening," he says, putting his hand at the small of her back as they weave through the restaurant toward Ethan and Jenny. The lace of her dress is warm and rough under his fingertips. "I'll rally."

She smiles up at him. "This was a bad idea."

He grins back. "Terrible. One of the worst you've had in the years I've known you."

"At least you're enjoying yourself," she mutters under her breath, and then they're standing in front of the table.


	4. Chapter 4

The menu has an Eiffel Tower on the front. Mulder pulls out Scully's chair and smirks to himself. At least he'll look like a smug boyfriend instead of a smug rich kid. He lets his fingers trail across Scully's shoulder, grazing her bare skin through the lace of her dress, just in bits like sunlight dappling through leaves. She shivers under his touch and now his smirk is all smug boyfriend. First base, sure, but he's always been the type to edge toward second. The metaphor falls apart at that point, because he's definitely not going to steal a base from Scully, but he catches her eye and she's smirking too. 

"Nice place," Mulder says.

"Thanks," Ethan says. "It's our favorite." He takes Jenny's hand. "We don't get out enough, but who does?"

"I hear you," Mulder says warmly. "We're always on the road, aren't we, babe?"

"Always," she says, "but you somehow find the time to make it special." She gives him a dazzling smile and Mulder's heart thumps like this isn't pretend. 

"It wouldn't work out if you weren't a sucker for diner pie," he teases her. 

"What can I say?" she says. "Somehow you find the miracles covered in whipped cream." She turns to Jenny. "I never order it on my own, but Fox has an instinct. If he brings me a slice, I know it'll be heaven."

"That's so sweet," Jenny says. "Sometimes Ethan gets doughnuts for the office from the good place down the street." 

"Chocolate frosted?" Scully asks.

"Of course you'd know," Jenny says. "But he sneaks in a plain glazed for me." 

"How thoughtful," Scully murmurs.

"All this dessert talk has got me ready for dinner," Ethan says. He points to a bottle of red wine sitting uncorked in front of Mulder. "I hope you don't mind - I got a bottle for the table to share. It's a great little vintage."

Mulder examines the bottle. He doesn't know much about wine, but he doesn't think that Arkansas ranks in the world's greatest wine-producing regions, despite the alleged Swiss traditions that birthed this particular bottle. He tips some into Scully's glass and moves toward Jenny's, but she covers her glass with her hand, exclaiming a little.

"None for me, thanks," she says, beaming, and Mulder immediately knows she's pregnant. He tries not to glance at Scully, but he doesn't need to see her to know that she's flinching. She's told him about flashbacks to her abduction, a forced pregnancy, and he remembers her going to the OBGYN more than once afterward. Not that it wouldn't be hard anyway, to hear that her old lover had almost immediately found someone new to start a family with - he knows she's always wanted kids. He presses his knee into hers under the table. 

"Congratulations," Scully says evenly. "You must be delighted."

"Oh, we are," Ethan says. "I know it's jumping the gun a little, but you don't always get to pick the right time."

Mulder keeps pouring wine, sloshing a little extra into his glass. 

"Do you two want kids?" Jenny asks.

"Just waiting for the time to be right," Mulder says before Scully can talk. "Besides, we can't agree on how many. I'm basically an only child" - which hurts, but less than it would to relive the whole thing, so let them make of that what they will - "and you know Dana's one of four. Totally different experiences."

"We want two," Jenny says. Of course they do, Mulder thinks, smiling as he takes a sip of the wine. It's highly mediocre. That's fine. He'll drink his Swiss Arkansas wine and eat his faux French cuisine and make pleasant conversation. 

"Should we peruse the menu?" he asks. "Now that you mentioned it, Ethan, my stomach's growling too."

"We love this place," Ethan assures him. "Everything here is good."

"Mm," Mulder says noncommittally, opening the menu. The sections are labeled in some American approximation of French that would have made his professor wince and they offer ranch dressing for the house salad, so he doesn't have high hopes for the boeuf bourguignon pocket (puff pastry, of course), but there are some half-decent options. Scully browses the offerings, looking like she'd rather be in one of those diners along the road. He leans over, his head close to hers.

"Play nice," he murmurs. "Smile. Maybe they'll think we're making plans for later."

She grins and tries to hide it. Sometimes he forgets how good an actress she can be. She looks like he just said something risqué about miracles and whipped cream. She turns to him, her lips brushing his cheek.

"I hate this," she says. He nods and squeezes her hand, bringing it briefly to his lips. 

"Sorry," he says to Ethan and Jenny. "Must been that Parisian flair. Romance in the air, you know?"

"We definitely know," Ethan assures him. 

"What do you think, babe?" Mulder asks Scully. "Split the quiche and the boeuf bourguignon pocket? Or are you in the mood for salad?"

"I could split the quiche," she says, "but beef sounds so heavy. What about the tarte flambée?"

"Perfect," Mulder says. They're so precious he could vomit, but Scully looks like she's recovered herself. 

"I'm going to try the boeuf pocket," Jenny says. "I just keep craving beef. It's crazy."

"Beef and avocados," Ethan teases. "Every night is taco night at our place."

"Sounds like heaven," Mulder says. 

"Well, this is definitely a welcome change of pace for us," Scully says. "It'll be nice to have a salad that's not just iceberg lettuce and a half-frozen tomato."

"And here I thought the FBI was glamorous," Jenny says with a laugh. "You know, all we hear about is extravagant government spending."

"That's DoD," Mulder jokes. "We're DoJ. Chronically underfunded."

"Well, then dinner is our treat," Ethan says. "They just keep handing out bonuses on our end - might as well use it to serve our country, if you know what I mean." He beams at his own joke. Mulder hopes Scully isn't rolling her eyes. 

"You don't have to do that," Scully says sweetly.

"It's our pleasure," Jenny says, smiling. "Really."

"Well, then, you'll have to let me know where you're registered for the baby shower," Scully says. 

Mulder just prays the waiter arrives before they somehow commit to a double date every week, or to being this kid's godparents, or to moving into some kind of multi-family home and co-raising any children the four of them might manage to produce.


	5. Chapter 5

The waiter, as if summoned by the scent of Mulder's desperation, appears at his elbow.

"Monsieur, Madame, bienvenue," he says in a bored tone, with a terrible accent. "I see the rest of your party has arrived. Our special tonight is trout with beurre blanc, or we have a filet mignon wrapped in bacon. Do you need a few minutes or are you ready to order?"

Jenny dithers between the steak and the boeuf bourguignon, Ethan encouraging her to splurge, and he ends up ordering the steak and promising her a few bites. Mulder would have to struggle not to roll his eyes if he and Scully weren't splitting their food. It's high-octane couple behavior. It's undiluted heterosexual cliché. 

He feels a little bad. Ethan and Jenny seem like genuinely nice people, just the kind of genuinely nice people that he's never really liked. They're not wealthy enough to be truly cruel, unlike the people he grew up with. Ethan and Jenny are only trying to rub their happiness in Scully's face a little. Mostly they're just happy, and if Mulder remembers correctly, it's hard not to project that to the world at large. It's been a while. He could be wrong.

Either way, he takes Scully's hand and rubs his thumb gently over her knuckles. He can feel her relax almost imperceptibly. She sips at her wine and smiles. He doesn't think Ethan can tell the expression is a little stiff. 

"Where were we?" she says. 

"We were thinking about a Mother Goose theme for the nursery," Jenny gushes. 

"We've been looking for a house and we found this cute little bungalow," Ethan says. "The room we're thinking of for the nursery just has the perfect morning light." He grins at Jenny. "I can't wait to see you in there, sitting in the rocker, holding our baby in front of the old woman who lives in the shoe and the clock from Hickory Dickory Dock that I'm going to paint on the wall."

"It's going to be perfect," Jenny says, and she really is glowing. Mulder reaches for his wine glass. He wonders if his parents ever had a conversation like this. He doesn't remember his nursery. Sam's was pink and lacy, but he doesn't remember any personal touches. No hand-painted storybook scenes, definitely. Scully was probably a baby in base housing, but he imagines that there were well-loved accessories: hand-me down blankets, grubby board books, a mobile over the crib that countless babies had cooed at.

"It sounds perfect," Scully says. 

"Could be you two, one of these days," Ethan says jovially. 

"You never know," Mulder says. "I would have gone for a _Goodnight Moon_ nursery personally."

"I'm learning so much about you," Scully says, looking at him with genuine interest in her eyes. 

"Who can resist a quiet old lady whispering hush?" Mulder teases. "No baby I know."

"A quiet old lady whispering hush has nothing on you talking about old cases," Scully says.

"If that doesn't work, you can read it your autopsy reports," Mulder shoots back, and they smile at each other, and he feels a pang in his heart for all the things that will never happen. It's easy to pretend he and Scully are together. It's easy to pretend their future could include domestic moments. He can see her in a rocking chair, murmuring to an infant, her hair disheveled and her robe only loosely tied. 

"I'm not sure autopsy reports are appropriate for a baby," Jenny says, frowning. 

"Just a little FBI humor," Mulder reassures her. 

"He prefers fairy tales to science anyway," Scully says, squeezing his hand. 

"I love happy endings, what can I say?" he says, gazing into her eyes. God, they're blue. He forgets how blue her eyes are sometimes, since they're usually narrowed at him. 

The waiter coughs next to them. "Monsieur, Madame," he says, motioning to a server. Mulder and Scully lean back so that the server can set the plates in front of them. "Is there anything else you need at the moment?"

"Not right now, thanks," Ethan says.

The quiche is slightly overbaked and a little rubbery. The tarte flambée is salty. They eat it anyway. Mulder pours Scully another glass of wine, and then another, until she gets a little flush in her cheeks. He tips the bottle invitingly at Ethan, who waves him away with a chuckle. Scully asks Jenny about work and Jenny goes into a long story about the interns, who are apparently unable to alphabetize without singing the song out loud to themselves, which means everyone in the whole office is constantly humming the alphabet song.

"We don't have any cute stories in our office," Mulder says.

"Mmm," Scully agrees, sipping her wine. "Nobody ever steals bunnies from a pet store or shoplifts a birthday cake for a needy child in our division."

"If they did steal bunnies, it would probably be for some unspeakable purpose," Mulder quips.

"Wow," Ethan says, shaking his head. "I tell you what, I couldn't do it. Kudos to both of you." 

"It helps to have each other," Mulder says in a moment of inspiration. He reaches out and puts his arm around Scully's shoulders. "I couldn't do it without her."

"And I couldn't do it without him," she says, leaning into him. He kisses the top of her head. 

"That's so sweet," Jenny says, wiping away a tear. "Oh, don't mind me, I just cry over everything these days!"

"It's true," Ethan assures them. "She cried about a GAP ad the other day." He shakes his head lovingly. "Can't wait to see what the next six months brings."

"I'm so glad you have each other," Jenny says. She dabs at her eyes with a napkin. "Just thinking about all you do to keep our country safe - it's so inspirational, and it must be so hard. Thank goodness there's some reward for all your hard work."

Scully reaches across the table and squeezes Jenny's hand. "That's so kind."

"It's so nice you two are getting along," Ethan says. "I know I should have called when I heard you were back, Dana, but I'll be honest, I just didn't see us having a future. I'm glad I understand that feeling now." He looks at Mulder. "It seems pretty clear that we both made the right choice."

Scully stiffens against Mulder's shoulder and lets go of Jenny's hand, but fortunately, they're interrupted again by the waiter. "Dessert?" he intones. 

"I think we can indulge," Mulder says. "What do you think, babe?"

"You always put me in the mood for something sweet," she says, gazing up at him. The tiny creases between her brows and at the corners of her eyes smooth out as he looks at her, as if whatever she sees in his face calms her. 

"Then we better feed that appetite," he murmurs.

The waiter clears his throat. "Very good. We have tonight an exquisite crème brûlée, a sumptuous chocolate cake with a molten center, and a delightful fruit tart."

"And a surplus of adjectives," Mulder whispers to Scully and she giggles. Maybe he shouldn't have poured her so much wine. 

"Chocolate cake," she says decisively. 

"And I'll have the crème brûlée," Mulder says. "A little sweet, a little edge, that's how I like it."

"If you want to get to the good stuff, you have to be willing to break through some walls," Scully teases. 

"It's worth it," he says, and kisses the top of her head again.

Jenny sniffs loudly. "I'll have the fruit tart." 

"I'm also going to try the crème brûlée," Ethan says. "Thank you."

"Very good," the waiter says, and wanders away looking faintly disgusted. At least that's authentically French.


	6. Chapter 6

Ethan asks Mulder about local sports teams as they wait for dessert and Mulder genially plays along. It's another cliché, but at least he is actually interested in sports. It's been a while since he and Danny managed to catch a football game. 

"Hard to keep up when we're out of town so much," he says, settling his arm more firmly around Scully, who leans gently against him. 

"I'm sure," Ethan says. "I'm impressed."

"He's cheating," Scully says fondly. "It helps to have a photographic memory."

"Guilty," Mulder says, and grins. 

"Sounds helpful," Jenny says. "At least, it would be in our line of work."

"In ours, it's sometimes a curse," Mulder says solemnly, and Ethan and Jenny both look taken aback and then a little abashed.

"Of course," Jenny mumbles. 

"It's all right," Mulder says. "That's why the Bureau has in-house therapists."

"Well, given what happened to Dana, it seems like that's a pretty useful benefit," Ethan says. 

"Oh, let's not talk about that," Scully says with a tinkling little laugh. "It's been such a nice night. Let's not spoil it."

"She's right," Mulder says. "It's been a nice night."

"We should do it again sometime," Jenny says brightly. 

"Absolutely," Scully says, and they're saved by the arrival of dessert. Scully takes a bite and groans with pleasure, a little dramatically in Mulder's opinion, but he can't argue with the frisson that goes up his spine. She sinks the fork back into the little cake and brings the next morsel to his mouth. He closes his lips slowly around the fork and lets the chocolate melt onto his tongue. 

"Mmmm," he says, and she smiles at him. He cracks the burnt sugar shell on the top of his crème brûlée with the back of his spoon and offers her the first bite. She licks the custard off the spoon, her tongue darting between her lips. No French kissing until Paris, he thinks, but aren't they about as close as they can get tonight? The chocolate cake is fine, tasty even, but he's sure it would be delicious on her lips.

They trade bites of the bittersweet cake and the creamy custard. Scully steadies herself with one hand on his thigh as she leans closer. Maybe it's just been a while since he was actually touched by a woman, but his heart beats faster, circulating blood to interesting places. If he and Scully were alone, he might make an Eiffel Tower joke. She'd probably say something about him not being worthy of a World's Fair. If they were still in view of Ethan and Jenny, he'd slip an arm around her waist and kiss her. Otherwise, he'd just smirk and push his hands into his pockets the way he always does. But it's good, the way she's braced against him. It lends credence to their narrative.

"Divine," Scully declares when they've left only traces of dessert on the plates. The busser comes to clear everything away as the waiter approaches with the check.

"Please, allow me," Ethan says, reaching for his wallet.

"We couldn't," Mulder tells him, sitting up and fishing for his own wallet.

Ethan puts out his hand. "I insist. I know that federal salary schedule is thankless. Our treat, as a thanks for all you do."

"It's the least we can do," Jenny says. 

"That's awfully kind," Mulder says, leaning back and slinging his arm around Scully again. "We'll get the next one."

"What a great idea, honey," Scully says, rubbing his thigh. 

"I knew we could work this out," Ethan says. He hands over his credit card. 

"Gosh, this was so nice," Jenny gushes. "I heard so much about you before, Dana. It's nice to finally put a face to the stories."

"Good stories, I hope," Scully murmurs.

"Oh, of course," Jenny says earnestly. "I mean, I was half-expecting a halo."

"She saves the halo for the weekends," Mulder tells her. "And church, of course."

"Oh, stop," Scully says in a pleased voice. 

"I really thought I'd be going to your wedding," Jenny continues. "Watching this guy be the one that got away." She laughs and loops her arm through Ethan's. "I was really sorry to hear that you moved away for a while."

"Is that what he said happened?" Scully asks. Her smile turns brittle. 

"You remember, babe," Mulder says, stroking her shoulder. "That temporary assignment. Rough case, but you made it through." 

"I certainly did," she says. 

"Special commendation," Mulder says in a confidential tone. "She doesn't like to brag."

"Same old Dana," Ethan says, shaking his head. 

"Same old me," Scully agrees. Her voice is only barely tight, but Mulder can feel the tension in her. "Anyway. It's classified, unfortunately, or I'd tell you all about it."

"What's really important is that it brought us together," Mulder says. "It really made me realize how much I needed you in my life. Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you got 'til it's gone."

She smiles weakly at him. "You need Joni Mitchell?"

"I do," he says solemnly. "And you."

"That's so sweet," Jenny says. "You two need to hush or I'll start crying again."

The waiter brings the check back for Ethan to sign and they start gathering their things. Not a moment too early in Mulder's opinion. He helps Scully up and keeps his arm around her as they walk out. They wave goodbye to Jenny and Ethan as they get into the car. Mulder checks his mirrors and pulls out into traffic, merging smoothly into the flow.

Scully sighs, a long exhalation. "That was...something."

"At least they were nice," Mulder offers. "Mostly."

"They were nice," Scully agrees. "And she's very pretty."

"Hmm," Mulder says.

She darts a glance at him, amused. "It's all right," she says. "You can admit that she's pretty."

"Not my taste," Mulder avers.

"Really," Scully says, crossing her arms. "I seem to recall you expressing interest in lithe brunettes on several occasions."

"I'm into redheads now," he tells her. "Petite ones."

She snorts. "You're not on stage anymore, Mulder."

"I'm a method actor," he says. "I have to live the experience. Right now I'm living the experience of being deeply in love with you and deeply full of mediocre food."

"At least we didn't order the boeuf bourguignon pocket," she says. "God, they're buying a house. They're having a baby. They have jobs where they get bonuses."

"Hey," he says. "I know you don't need the reminder, Scully, but you have an impressive career. You're an accomplished person with credentials and integrity anyone would admire." He pauses. "And you're a beautiful woman." 

"Aren't you supposed to save that kind of commentary for when I'm about to get out of the car?" she asks.

"Nah," he says. "This way you know it's not just a line."

"Nothing's ever just a line with you," she mumbles, toeing off her shoes and pulling her feet onto the car seat. "There's always some deeper meaning. It's like I'm always in freshman literature, analyzing every word you say."

"I'm not even an upper-level seminar?" he asks. "Can't wait to read your dissertation on Fox Mulder's bullshit."

"It's my life's work," she says, rolling her eyes. "But thank you. For all of it."

He reaches out and flourishes his fingers at her until she takes his hand. "You're welcome."

They ride like that for a few minutes, parallel lives in the dark, following the tracks of the headlights.

"Mulder," she says. "When I was halfway in your lap in the restaurant. Was that an Eiffel Tower joke I felt?"

"I am nothing if not predictable," he says, glad it's dark so she can't see the faint flush on his face. "I told you, I'm a method actor."

"I see," she says. "Let me guess: the elevator's working."

"You said it, I didn't." He makes a left turn and then has to stop almost immediately at the next light, backed up behind a line of cars. "Although that is the 'is your refrigerator running' of Eiffel Tower jokes."

"I see," she says. She tugs at her seatbelt, leans over, and gazes at him for a moment.

"Wha-" he starts to say, and then she kisses him, her mouth open, her tongue brushing against his. He melts like the inside of his crème brûlée, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. She doesn't taste like chocolate or wine or cream, but he can't get enough of her anyway. His thumb skates over her cheekbone, traces the shell of her ear, and slips down to caress her throat as she kisses him insistently, her fingers weaving into his hair.

They only break apart when someone honks behind them, a loud long blast. Scully jumps back into her seat and rebuckles her seatbelt - he didn't even notice when she undid it. She tugs her skirt down her thighs and smooths her hair as he puts the car into gear. The honking behind them finally stops.

Mulder coughs as he accelerates. "I thought no French kissing until Paris."

"In a way, we went to Paris," she says thoughtfully, her voice a little raspier than normal. "And you can't tell me that meal was fulfilling."

"I do find a third course of tongue very satisfying," he admits.

"You've only had one so far," she says. He risks a glance at her. She cocks an eyebrow at him. "Although it would seem it only takes one to call your elevator. So to speak."

"I guess you're a certified elevator technician," he says. "I always suspected that about you, Scully."

She smiles. Her teeth and her eyes glint in the glow from the streetlights. "I do have a certain reputation for being mechanically inclined," she says modestly. 

He makes a slightly strangled noise that isn't quite a laugh or a groan. She smirks and takes his hand again, tracing each of his fingers. He's never been more glad to drive an automatic.

It seems to take forever to get to her building. Almost as soon as he's got the car in park she's leaning toward him again, and he meets her halfway this time. He runs his seat back as far on its runners as it will go, which is only a few notches more, but it gives him space to pull her onto his lap without her leaning against the horn. She twists to twine her arms around him. And then they're kissing again, and her mouth is hot and welcoming, and he can feel her muscles flexing under her dress where his arm is wrapped around her waist. She wriggles until she's straddling him, her knees digging into the sides of his thighs. He lets his hands slide down to her thighs, to the warm edges of the lace that keep slipping up and up. She presses against him and time disappears. He loses himself in the warmth of her, the physical reality of her, the softness and hardness of her. So much of their back and forth is intellectual that sometimes he forgets the physical, but not now, oh, not now, when she's balanced above him, both of them panting into each other's mouths. Her lips slide across his to kiss his cheek and his jaw. He tries to slow the heave of his chest. The windows of his car are fogging up.

"Thanks for dinner," she whispers into the hollow under his chin.

"I didn't even pay for it," he reminds her. 

"Thanks," she says, nipping at the skin of his throat, "for being there. For having my back. For playing along."

"I'll play along as long as you want," he gasps.

"Good," she says, sitting up. "Because I'm afraid we will have to have dinner with them again."

"Inevitably," he agrees. "That's fine."

"I'm glad you understand," she says. She reaches across for something - her little bag - and then unlocks the door. The night air makes him shiver, even though it isn't cold. She tips herself off his lap and out of the car. 

"Next time I'll wear something that's more conducive to you reaching second base," she says, leaning in to kiss him one last time. He makes it linger, tugging gently at her bottom lip with his teeth until she's the one gasping. 

"I'll swing for the fences," he promises. 

She smirks. "I'd expect nothing less."

He watches her go into her building and waits until the lights come on in her apartment. She waves briefly at the window and he shifts back into drive and points himself toward his own place. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the gratitude. Maybe she was taking out the fact that she and Ethan never had closure (and by closure he means breakup sex) on Mulder, which, for the record, he's fine with, even if it's probably mostly the fact that he's the closest warm body. Maybe she's a method actor too, gathering material for their next drama. He examines his deepest feelings and determines he's just happy to be involved, although he does kind of wish he owned a Joni Mitchell album now. He taps his fingers on his thigh as he drives, humming to himself.

He won't need visual aids tonight, not even the ones featuring petite redheads. He's definitely looking forward to their next dinner.


	7. Chapter 7

Between their travel schedule and Ethan and Jenny's various appointments, it's three weeks before they manage to get together for dinner again. Mulder is honestly surprised it even happens. He assumed when they all promised it would be a regular thing that everyone else was just saying it for the usual social reasons. He's never quite sure what to do anymore when someone who isn't Scully enjoys his company. But he dutifully makes reservations at an upscale Latin American place in deference to Jenny's cravings for beef and avocados, and Jenny practically croons as she looks at the menu. 

"Oh, Fox, I can't believe you remembered," she gushes. "That's so nice."

"That photographic memory," Scully says fondly, and pats his hand. She's wearing a blouse tonight, silky and pink with one more button undone than her usual office wear, and a skirt that looks like it would be easy to slide his hand under. But he's definitely not counting his bases before they hatch, or however the metaphor would go.

"There was no way I was getting between a pregnant lady and her tacos," Mulder says. 

"These are going to be way nicer than the ones we make at home," Ethan says. "Nice job, Fox."

Jenny pats her belly. She's showing slightly now. "I'm sure our little peanut will appreciate that."

"He's so considerate," Scully says. She throws Mulder a melting look. 

"Sorry we haven't been able to meet before now," Ethan says, "but big news - we closed on the house. It's officially ours."

"Maybe we'll have you over for dinner!" Jenny says. "After the painters finish, of course. Can't be around the fumes right now." She laughs.

"Of course," Scully says with a gentle chuckle. "Maybe it'll inspire me to redo my apartment." 

"I thought you were going to redo your apartment soon anyway," Mulder says in a meaningful tone, nuzzling at her ear.

"Oh, Fox," she says, playfully pushing him away. "You know we haven't worked out all the details yet."

"We've got news of our own," Mulder says, turning back to Ethan and Jenny. "We're moving in together." Jenny claps her hands.

"That's so wonderful!" she says. "You'll have to have a housewarming when you find your new place."

"We haven't even decided whether we're getting a new place," Scully says, smiling.

"You will," Jenny says decisively. "You know when you get to our age, it's just too hard to let someone else into your space, or to give up your own place. A fresh start is better. That way you can work together from the beginning. It all starts with compromise."

"Wise words from a beautiful lady," Ethan says, leaning in to kiss her cheek. 

"I just know you'll find the perfect place," Jenny says. Her eyes are shining. "And if you need any help, Dana, I actually love looking through the real estate ads. I'd be happy to look up a few places you might like."

"That sounds perfect," Scully says. Mulder nudges her knee with his under the table. She presses back firmly. 

Dinner, fortunately, is delicious, because it's accompanied by endless details about Ethan and Jenny's bungalow, their paint colors, the new stove they're having delivered, and the plans they have for their guest room. In the absence of wine, Scully indulges in a margarita or two. Mulder watches her lick the salt off the rim of her glass and remembers the kisses they shared in his car. They haven't talked about it since, but he's indulged in a few reminiscences, alone in his apartment. He picks up a forkful of pickled vegetables and pork from his Cuban plate and orders another margarita for himself. 

The meal ends with churros, fresh-fried and glistening with sugar. Scully dips one into the accompanying chocolate sauce and holds it to Mulder's lips. He bites into it, only a little self-conscious. It crunches gently, hot and delicious. He looks at Scully and it's like they're the only two people in the room. Maybe that's where this ridiculous ritual comes from.

It's a nice night, somehow, or nice enough, for a night that doesn't involve watching either UFOs or baseball. He couldn't have imagined becoming anything even approaching friends with anyone who'd ever dated Scully, but Ethan isn't that bad, and Jenny's definitely trying to smooth everything over. He can tell that all this domesticity is still pressing on some sore spots in Scully's heart, but it isn't intentional. Ethan and Jenny just genuinely want to share their joy. 

They say their goodnights at the door of the restaurant. Mulder puts his arm around Scully and she slips her hand into the back pocket of his nice jeans. He isn't sure whether she's actually squeezing his ass, but at this point, he wouldn't put it past her. When he agreed to play pretend as her boyfriend, he didn't expect either of them to commit to the bit so fully, but it makes sense despite Scully's generally reserved nature. When she goes for something, she goes all in. Rewriting Einstein. Pursuing some kind of accelerated program through med school that he still doesn't understand so that she could join the FBI. Wrangling him and investigating the X-Files. Cuddling up to him at a restaurant as if they're sickeningly in love.

He's seen worse coping strategies for dealing with one's ex and one's ex's new house purchase, promotion, and pregnant pretty fiancée.

"See you soon?" Ethan says, holding out his hand for Mulder to shake.

"We wouldn't miss it," Mulder says. "Or that double housewarming." They wave as Ethan and Jenny turn to go through the parking lot.

"Is this what it's like to have friends?" he murmurs to Scully.

"I'm not sure anymore," she says wryly. "All I have is you."

"I'm not so bad," he says with amusement. "Am I?"

Now she's definitely squeezing his ass. "You do all right."

"You okay?" he asks.

She sighs. "It's strange," she says at last. "On the surface, it seems as if they have everything I've always wanted, but I don't look at Ethan and want to be with him. I don't even know if that life is what I want at this point. I mean, it is, but this job isn't exactly compatible with parenting, and I don't want to give it up, and I don't want to have a family unless I have a partner, which I don't have time to find. My parents loved each other, but I saw what raising four kids basically on her own put on my mother. And Dad missed so much."

"Meanwhile my parents had nothing but me in their lives," Mulder says. "After Sam, I mean. That wasn't ideal either."

"So two to four kids," Scully muses. "I don't think I'm the type for immaculate conception."

"That should be the least of your worries," he tells her, opening the car door for her. 

They bicker amiably about the existence of Bigfoot on the way home, a refrain as familiar as anything on Top 40 radio. He parks outside her building and turns to her, trying not to have expectations. But he can't stop remembering the heat of her kisses that fogged up the windows, the weight of her balanced in his lap. She blinks at him slowly in the dark of his car and he thinks she's remembering too.

"Walk me to my door?" she says, and the quirk in her lips makes her intent clear. 

"It would be my pleasure," he says, and follows her into her building. He props himself against the door jamb as she unlocks the door. It takes her a second, even though he knows they were at the restaurant long enough for the margaritas to wear off. If she's jittery, it's for some other reason. He hopes it's him. The lock clicks open at last and she tugs her keys out.

"Well," he says, grinning, "good night."

She reaches up and tows him into her apartment by his shirtfront. He kicks the door shut and lets her press him against it as he bends down to kiss her. He does taste salt and sugar flecked at the edges of her lips this time, but what matters is the heat of her and the way her lips and tongue insist on capturing his full attention. He cups his hands around her face. He'd pick her up if he dared and let her wrap her legs around his waist, but as natural as it feels to kiss her, all this is new. 

"I think you've earned second base," she says. "For outstanding performance at an endless dinner."

"You sure?" he asks.

"I saw the way you looked at me in that hotel room in Oregon when I showed up in nothing but a robe," she teases. "To say nothing of assorted evidence I've gathered over the last few years, up to and including elevator maintenance. If you're not interested, we can say good night, but I better not hear any more bullshit about method acting."

"I'm interested," he assures her. "It's just that pesky real life and office that we share I'm worried about."

She shrugs. "It's worked so far. I'm not going to tell my therapist about it, but it's worked." She pulls him closer and looks up at him. "If I didn't let Them take you from me, I'm not going to let this take you from me."

"If you're sure," he says. 

"I'm sure that I'd rather that you were feeling me up than that we were continuing this conversation," she says, pressing her body against his. "So shut up and put out or get out." She winks to soften her words. 

He kisses her again and unbuttons her blouse with feverish intensity, sliding his hand inside to touch the lace of her bra. Her nipples are already hard. He flicks his thumb across them and she gasps against his lips. 

"Ah, Scully," he says reverently. 

"Couch," she commands, stepping away and taking his hand, and he follows her over. She perches on the arm of the couch, her shirt half-open and her eyes half-lidded. He sits below her and buries his face between her breasts. She laughs, her chest rumbling against his forehead as he nuzzles against her velvety skin. 

Scully, in a surprise to no one, has absolutely perfect breasts. They're perfectly shaped, with a perfect weight in his hands, and her nipples are rosy peeking through the lace of her bra. He loves them. He could play with them forever. From the noises Scully is making as he gently squeezes them, that's more than all right with her.

He loses track of time. He's hypnotized by the texture of her, the salt taste of her skin under his tongue. He pulls her on top of him, toppling onto the cushions. She's straddling him and yes, he was right about the skirt being easy to push up. He undoes her bra and pushes her shirt off her shoulders. She slides her arms out of the straps and he has access to all of her. The way she braces herself above him changes the shape of her breasts and he could spend forever just exploring all the things gravity or the lack thereof could do to her body. He wants to get her in a pool. He wants to take her into space. He wants to grow old with her, and fuck, he already knew it, but it's a whole new world. 

"Mulder," she says, and her voice comes from far away, but he reels himself in. She slides down his body until she can look into his eyes. "I don't want to stop."

"I hear a big 'but' coming," he murmurs, kissing her.

"But I don't think we should round the bases tonight," she says, her voice brimming with regret. 

"You know I hate it when you're right," he says. She leans down, smiling against his lips.

"I know you do," she says. "But you and I both know we're going to have to have more dinners with them. It makes more sense to ration it out." 

"Just in case of catastrophe," he says.

"That and I don't want to fling myself into your arms to assuage my regrets about my former relationship," she says. "You deserve better." She kisses him again. "But god, I want you."

"You'll just have to wait a little longer," he says indulgently, brushing his hand down her bare thigh. 

"At least until the nursery's painted," she says, rolling her eyes. 

"That's third base," he tells her. "Housewarming is home."

"Who put you in charge of the calendar?" she teases.

"I'm kind of in charge of the elevator," he jokes back. "Besides, who knew the way to get you to drop all your inhibitions was to put you at a dinner table with a nice boring suburban couple?"

"That sounds much more scandalous than I think you intended," she says with a smile. 

"My scandal level is precisely calibrated," he says. She climbs off him and he sits up. He'll have to address his situation again when he gets home. He's half-amazed he didn't come in his pants like a college boy fumbling around in his twin bed with his first hookup. 

"Good night," Scully says, tracing a finger down the buttons of his shirt. 

"I guess you didn't get to second base," he says, looking at his chest. Hers is much more appealing. She's shrugged her shirt back on and her breasts are bare inside it, flushed and possibly marked by his teeth. 

"Next time," she says. "You don't have quite as much to work with."

"I might surprise you," he says. 

"Next time," she says again, and this time it's a promise. She sends him out the door with a kiss and a slap on the ass. He shakes his head in the hallway, only half-believing that any of this is happening at all.


	8. Chapter 8

It takes Ethan and Jenny's painters a long time to finish up the trim, apparently, so long that Mulder begins to regret his proclamation that third base can't happen until after the fumes have faded. But they all go to a movie together, which at least reduces the need to make conversation about how long it takes paint to dry. He puts his arm around Scully's shoulders. She slips her hand into his pocket and strokes his thigh through the fabric, her fingertips teasing his cock.

There was always a part of him that suspected Scully of being a treasure trove of pent-up sexuality, and he's a little irked that it took Ethan of all people to unlock it, even if Ethan (the whitest of white bread) isn't the one reaping the benefits. He and Scully have had plenty of downtime in the midst of saving each other's lives for Mulder to have found the keys to her psyche on his own. Hell, they spent a whole month alone together in quarantine after that Firewalker case mooning around in scrubs with a very limited underwear selection and never explored each other's volcanic underground, so to speak. Meanwhile, one look at this polo-shirted jug of milk and Scully's ready to slip Mulder all the tongue he can handle. Even a degree in psychology can't help him with this conundrum. Are Scully's zealous caresses the product of misplaced lust for Ethan, or is she just really good at playing pretend? Or have they arrived at an inevitable union by a roundabout route, as they usually do, and she's been just as interested as he has this whole time, and only needed the excuse?

The sentences in his mind get less and less coherent as Scully's fingertips continue to graze his cock at irregular intervals. When the movie's over, he can't even remember the title, and he has to hold the popcorn bucket at crotch level. Scully smirks. 

"It's so nice just to get out and do things," Jenny enthuses. "I mean, it's like once you get pregnant, no one ever invites you anywhere. It's like they think you're going to go into labor if you have any fun." She laughs. "You'll understand one day, Dana."

"I'm sure I will," Scully says smoothly. Mulder puts one arm around her. He's sure Ethan and Jenny didn't catch the momentary flicker of grief in her eyes, but he's so well-versed in Scully's microexpressions now that he's sure his own brows pinched together in sympathy.

She drove this time, but he isn't surprised when she parks outside his building and comes up with him. She keeps to her side of the elevator, but she lounges against the wall as he's unlocking the door, and her arms slide around him as soon as they get inside. He walks backward to the couch, hoping his basketball isn't in an inconvenient place on the floor, and pulls her down on top of him. Her mouth is hot against his, but there's something desperate in her kisses. 

"What's going on?" he murmurs as she kisses across his jaw.

"It's my turn to get to second base," she says against the underside of his chin. She nips at his neck and he groans. 

"As much as I'm sure my pecs enthrall you, I don't think that's it," he says. "Or you would have torn my shirt open in the office yesterday."

"How do you know I didn't want to?" she asks, propping herself up on one elbow.

"Scully," he says, and reaches out to still her.

"I'm fine," she says, half on top of him and half-wedged between his body and the back of the couch.

He says nothing, just looks at her until her eyes drop. 

"It just...hurts," she says slowly. "Ever since my abduction, I've had this fear that I can't have children. That whatever they did to me made me infertile. It's something that's been difficult to confirm without invasive testing which I haven't had the time or the inclination to have done, but I don't think it's an irrational fear. I can't remember what happened to me. I have no proof. It's just a feeling. But every time Jenny says something about someday when I have children of my own...it hurts."

He pulls her back down against him and wraps his arms around her. "I'm sorry," he mumbles into her hair. "I wish I could help."

"Not in the obvious way, I assume," she says. He can feel the heat of her breath through the fabric of his shirt.

"I don't know how much help that would be," he says, astonished that his brain can even form words when Scully's on top of him asking in her oblique way if he wants to have a baby with her. "For a number of reasons, not least are the worries you shared with me the other week about the stresses of this job versus the pressures of starting a family."

She sighs, pushing herself up again. "It was too much to ask of a work colleague anyway."

"That's not it," he says. "I feel like it's my fault. Your abduction. Any difficulties that have followed."

"It wasn't your fault," she tells him. "You couldn't have known that Duane Barry would fixate on me."

"It wasn't the most extreme possibility," he says. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry that a case you weren't even working has had such lasting consequences for you."

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "I can't even verify my hunch," she says. "That's the worst part. Is it fear or intuition? Do I trust my inner voice or my doctors?"

"I always trust your intuition," he says. "Even when I've denied it before."

Her smile is wry. "Good to know post facto."

"And if I can help in any way - in any way, Scully - just let me know." His eyes search hers for proof that she hears and understands him.

"That particular activity isn't until the housewarming," she says. "Now I understand your reticence."

"Exactly," he confirms, although it's true his mind is still reeling at the thought of fathering a child with Scully. He would have expected many more negative thoughts. Instead, in his mind's eye, he's seeing a nursery decorated in soft greens, a mobile of the planets hanging above a crib, Scully round and satisfied as she surveys the work he's done.

He's startled out of his reverie by Scully undoing the buttons of his shirt. "Huh?" he says.

"I could use a distraction," she says. "I think your pecs will suffice."

"My pecs appreciate your confidence in them," he says. "Although I'm a little concerned that you're evaluating my potential as a mate solely on the basis of my pecs."

"Oh, Mulder," she sighs, "what makes you think I haven't been evaluating your potential since the day we met?"

"Touché," he says. 

"Besides," she adds, "your pecs are definitely in the pro column of any potential pros and cons list one might make before choosing to embark on even a sham relationship with you."

"Good to know," he says. "I'll make sure to keep hitting the gym."

She nuzzles against his skin, the tip of her nose cool. "I'll schedule a regular inspection."

She pulls open his shirt to reveal his chest and his abs, and her exploration of his torso is no less thorough than he'd expect of her. Her lips brush across his skin until he's faintly pink all over. She teases his nipples with the tip of her tongue and the bare edges of her teeth until he's groaning. Her fingers drag back and forth across his skin as if she's creating a topographic map for her own personal reference. He's definitely got some elevation at this point, straining against his trousers and her thigh. He knows she can feel it by the way she shifts against him. He groans when her hot mouth meets his skin, her teeth scraping as she sucks at his chest. Scully's the type to leave a mark. Somehow he didn't expect that. Then again, bodies tell stories to her. Maybe she wants to write one with his, a record of whatever it is they're doing together.

"You can conduct your own inspection," she says in a husky voice, surveying her work. Mulder's sure he's got a livid mark, lipstick-dark against his throbbing skin. He likes that she's possessive. Somehow it makes him feel proud to be worth possessing. His hands skim up under her silk shell and squeeze her breasts through her bra. She moans, moving against him, and when it comes to bases, he's not sure she's not going to steal third, so to speak, moving past making out and fondling to frottage or more. He tries hard not to press his hips up against hers, focusing on the feeling of her breasts in his hands, which helps and doesn't help. She sits up suddenly and straddles his stomach, her skirt riding high up her thighs. He can still reach her breasts, which is what he cares about at the moment. She rakes her nails gently down his chest and he gasps.

"I had to sit up," she says in that voice that goes straight to his balls. "Or we were going to go past second base."

"I get it," he says, and has to clear his throat. "Shortstop would have gotten us."

"Have to save something for later," she says. 

"Scully, I'll be honest," he tells her, "I don't think we'll have any problems finding new things to do if this continues. I think between us, we've got a hell of an imagination."

"And you've got a hell of a collection of inspiration, I'm sure," she says. "But I am enjoying the anticipation."

"As am I," he assures her as he undoes her bra. She groans as his bare skin touches hers. 

"God, your hands are warm," she says.

"It's frankly astonishing that I have any circulation at all," he admits, "given my current situation."

She raises an eyebrow. "I'm sure you'll address it after I leave."

"Will you?" he asks boldly. "Address your own situation, assuming you have one."

"I may take a bath," she says in a low voice. "Said bath may or may not serve more than a hygienic purpose."

"So all those Friday nights you said you were going to stay in and take a bath," he goes on, flicking her nipples with his thumbs to make her gasp. "Were you going home to touch yourself and think of me?"

"Some of them," she admits, looking down at him. "How does that make you feel, Mulder?"

"Speechless," he whispers.

"Maybe I should go," she teases. "Since it seems like your situation is fairly desperate."

"Fuck, Scully," he says. "What am I supposed to do with this knowledge?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something," she says, and she bends down to kiss him. Her tongue is in his mouth almost immediately and goddammit, he wanted to be inside her before, but the way she kisses takes that to the next level. He's almost certain that one day her mouth is going to be around his cock and that knowledge is almost enough to send him over the edge at a moment when her lips aren't warm against his. He can't help arching up under her, and a shock goes through his whole body when he feels the fabric of her panties slippery and wet against his skin. They both moan.

"I should go," she says breathlessly, sitting up. 

"Yeah," he agrees as she drags her fingers down his chest one more time. It isn't what he wants to say. He doesn't think she really wants to leave. But those are the parameters of this, whatever it is, and he'll hold to them. She was already too precious to him to lose her again. He definitely won't risk fucking up their relationship for sex, even though he suspects that if and when it happens, it will be mindblowing. No one has ever mattered to him the way Scully does. So yes, she should go.

"Thanks for helping me calm down," she says, climbing off him. She reaches behind herself and rehooks her bra, resettling her breasts in the cups. He can see the peaks of her nipples through her shirt. "And thanks for listening."

"You can always talk to me," he says. "I hope you know that."

"I do," she says, brushing her hair behind her ear and smoothing her skirt back down her thighs. "But sometimes it's like we're too close to discuss things that matter this much."

"I know," he says. He watches her put herself back together, running through her mental checklist to make sure she's fit to be seen outside the sanctum of his apartment. She tidies the rumpling of his touch away, adjusts her clothes until no one would know that her skirt was rucked up to her hips and her tits were in his hands instead of lifted and separated by her bra. As a final touch, she wipes her finger around her mouth to remove any lipstick that isn't already on his skin. 

"I'll see you Monday," she says.

He pushes himself up until he's half-sitting. "Drive safe."

"I will," she says, and ducks down for one last lingering kiss. The door closes softly behind her. Mulder lingers on the couch for a long moment. He doesn't know what the kiss means. He doesn't know what any of their conversation tonight means for the long run of their relationship, whatever kind of relationship it is. He does know that it won't matter how long he ruminates on it: nothing will be clear tonight except for the hickey Scully left on his chest. He heaves himself off the couch and goes to take a long steamy shower, remembering the tug of Scully's lips against his, the insistence of her tongue, the slickness between her legs, the confident way she took control of him. He strokes himself, imagining her touching herself and thinking of him, and comes so hard he sees stars.

The couch smells faintly of sex when he returns to it. He rolls himself up in his blanket and tries to ignore it, because if he just thinks about Scully being wet for him all night, he won't sleep. When he does drift off, he dreams that she's pregnant. "Did we do this?" he asks, cupping his hands around her belly, but she just smiles. He wakes up very suddenly and has a raging erection. He grits his teeth and goes to find his bottle of lotion, determinedly not thinking of a pregnant Scully while he thrusts into his fist. When he falls asleep again, he doesn't remember his dreams at all.


	9. Chapter 9

When he comes in on Monday, he expects her to say something. They've progressed much farther than he ever imagined when he first pretended to be her boyfriend. He can't fathom that it isn't on her mind, especially given the fears she confessed. But she just looks up at him with that sweet smile that has nothing behind it and he smiles back and goes to his desk. He forgets, sometimes, how good she is at compartmentalizing. Her "I'm fine" is always a lie, and he knows all her tells, but she's lost her father, her sister, her bodily autonomy, her professional aspirations, most of her friends, and perhaps her own future children: he's astounded she can even get out of bed, much less function the way she does. No wonder she can get through the workday without undressing him with her eyes. That doesn't mean there isn't a part of him who wishes her self-control weren't quite so ironclad. 

They talk about the case they've been called in on. There are no allusions to situations or inspections. Scully doesn't mention baseball in any capacity. They put together a profile for the agents upstairs. Mulder sifts through the news for anything that sounds like an X-File.

At lunch, she picks up a copy of the newspaper and brings it back to the office. She sits down in her corner, shaking the paper open. "Doing the crossword?" he asks.

She frowns. "Jenny got my number somehow. She keeps calling to tell me about the real estate ads she's read. I have to have something to say."

He whistles. "She's nesting for two, huh?"

"Two, four, five, whatever," she says, flipping to the ads and staring down at the tiny print. "If I'd known it was going to be this involved to have friends again, I would have just pretended to have amnesia when Ethan walked into that bar."

"Are they our friends?" he asks.

She sighs. "No, but imagine telling them that. I can't make a pregnant woman cry." She glances up at him. "Besides, it's almost nice to have something to do with someone who's not you."

"I don't think I need to remind you that I'm there too," he points out.

"I didn't really call anyone," she says abruptly. "After I came back. Just Ellen, and it turned out that she'd moved to Texas for a job. We still talk on the phone, but I haven't seen her since before. Everyone else - it was almost a relief to feel like I was starting over. But since then, I've only had you. And Byers and Frohike and Langly, after a fashion, but they're your friends."

"I'm not enough?" he asks. "I've always considered myself a handful."

"That isn't it at all," she says, shaking her head. "It isn't about you not being enough. You know how much I value our friendship."

"Do I?" he asks.

"I hope you do," she says earnestly. "I wouldn't have made it back without you, Mulder. You and Melissa, you were my anchors when I was ready to let the tide take me. But the fact remains that I haven't had friends for a long time and it's strange to have someone want to be a part of my life like this. Especially since she's under the impression that you and I are madly in love and careening toward the same life she has with the house and the kids and the happily ever after."

"Hmm," he says. "A common misapprehension."

"And I can't correct it now," she says, gesturing with the paper, "because then we'll look delusional, or possibly sociopathic." She snaps the paper back so that the creases fold smoothly. "I'm afraid she's going to want to go look at houses with us."

"We'll tell her that it's a personal decision," Mulder suggests. "Or, no, we don't want to impose. It'll make her ankles swell to stand up for so long. We're waiting on my investments to mature."

"Do you have investments?" she asks, gazing at him over the edge of her newspaper.

He shrugs. "Probably." Her sigh rattles the paper. He frowns. "Wait, did we already move in together in this fantasy? Or were we going to find a new place first? I seem to recall something about us needing a space we chose together rather than just consolidating into one of our existing places."

"Maybe we're waiting for your lease to run out," she suggests. "You thought it was month-to-month, but your building management changed its policy. And the real estate market moves so fast that there's no point in looking until then."

"I definitely have to pack," he says, thinking of his bedroom full of boxes. "And so do you."

"There's no point in wasting imaginary money," she says. She sets down the paper, looking relieved. "I might still have to go to a few open houses, but we can't look seriously for another six months."

"Six months?" he asks.

She shrugs. "You'd already signed a year's lease before we got together. It's been a slow burn kind of romance."

"So they say." He picks up the paper and turns to the crossword. "Did we have an origin story?"

"What, like our eyes met over a corpse and we knew it was meant to be?" she asks. "I don't think so."

"I'd say a stakeout got a little boring or surveillance got a little titillating," he suggests idly, "but I doubt you'd be into a tryst that began during working hours."

"You're right," she says. "Maybe you had tickets to a baseball game."

"I like where you're going with this," he says approvingly, "but it's only May now and we're supposed to have been dating for a while. Longer than a couple of months."

"Last season," she corrects. "And then over the fall and winter, it just sort of blossomed."

"Date nights at the Smithsonian," he embroiders. "Strolling through a farmer's market on a Saturday morning. Dinners after work, strictly off-duty, of course. Holding hands in a variety of art galleries. A kiss on New Year's that made you see fireworks."

"Running dates on the Mall," she adds with a smile. "Cherry blossom viewings. Picnics by the Potomac." 

"That one's true, if you count sunflower seeds and coffee as a picnic," he offers. 

"I don't," she says, but she's still smiling. "But nicer than liverwurst and root beer in a stakeout car that always smells like feet."

"That sandwich saved my life," he says.

"You're welcome," she tells him. "So our story is that we have six months until your lease is up and we hope by then they're too busy with the baby to ever talk to us again?"

"That's about the long and short of it," he says. "People with newborns never have friends, right?"

"Right," she says decisively. "They're too busy trying to sleep when the baby sleeps and making sure they have enough diapers."

"Scully," he says, and hesitates. "I'm not going to tell you they're my favorite people, but what's your objection to being friends with Jenny, if she's coming at this from a place that's genuine?"

She sighs. "She thinks our lives are the same. They're not. I can't imagine at this point in my life having the priorities she has. You and I, Mulder, we live on some grander scale than most people, engaged intermittently in this kind of holy war against the forces of evil that want to reshape American society and the world. I can't just go to Pottery Barn and pretend that none of it's happening. I can't explain our cloak and dagger life to someone like her."

"Fair enough," he says. 

"There was a time in my life when I could have been Jenny," she says in a low voice tinged with irony. 

"Before the constant surveillance and the secret messages from covert informants and the conspiracy penetrating to the deepest levels of our government and way of life?" he asks.

"It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you," she quips, and he grins at her.

"It is strange," he says. "To have people who expect to hear from us. I'm sure we'll go out to dinner again this week."

"I'm sure," Scully says. "Unless we get some kind of case that takes us out of town." She looks wistful.

"You'd rather be chasing monsters in some backwater than having a nice dinner in a cosmopolitan city?" Mulder asks.

"I'd rather be with you than with them," she says, rolling her eyes. "And maybe this time we'd be chasing monsters in Chicago or LA. But at least it's my turn to pick a place. I'll just make sure they have a good bar."

He frowns. She has been drinking more at these dinners than she usually does. He'd thought she was just stressed, but that isn't her normal coping mechanism. Maybe it's to take the edge off. Maybe it's more than that. Maybe it's because pretending to date him is too much for her. "You okay, Scully?"

"I drink so that nobody will ask if I'm pregnant," she says. "Not because I have a problem."

"Not because the idea of being in a fake relationship with me is too much to bear?" he teases.

"I don't need my inhibitions lowered to kiss you," she says. "Does that satisfy you?"

"It helps," he says.

She edges closer to him. "I didn't have anything to drink at the movie, if you recall, and I don't think I seemed particularly inhibited afterwards."

"Uh, no," he says, trying to think about baseball, which really doesn't work anymore as a way to avoid an inconvenient hardon, after all their conversations. "I can't say you did."

"Any activity I engage in is voluntary and uninfluenced by intoxicants," she says. "Even if it is under the auspices of a sham relationship."

"I've been meaning to ask you about the utility of the kind of physical activity no one else sees," he says. "Not that I want it to stop."

"I thought you were a method actor," she says.

"Definitely," he assures her. 

"It seemed to me that you were enjoying the process," she says.

"I am," he says quickly. "I'm sure it adds dimension to our performance in the moment."

"We don't have to continue," she says, gazing steadily at him. "I just felt like we could both use a reward for all our efforts."

"Better than a prize from the claw machine," he jokes.

"Expressing one's sexuality is an essential part of most adults' mental and physical health," she points out. "And neither of us has had the time to pursue that in any extracurricular capacity, so to speak. It's an expedient solution to a somewhat stressful situation."

"You make it sound so romantic," he murmurs. 

She tilts her head, looking at him with eyes that are both compassionate and amused. "Should we light a candle next time? Play some Marvin Gaye?"

"Ha ha," he says sarcastically. He's kind of astonished she's still okay with candles, after Donnie Pfaster, but it isn't like he wants to bring that up.

She puts her hand over his. "Mulder. Nobody matters to me more than you do. If kissing is complicating things, we can stop."

"No," he says. "You're right. It does help me unwind. Who knew that a nice dinner out with a nice couple could be so exhausting?"

"I think it adds dimension to your acting," she teases. "You really do look like you can't wait for dinner to be over."

"What can I say?" he asks. "I've got a sweet tooth. Dessert is my favorite part of the meal." He looks her over deliberately, as if his meaning wasn't already clear.

"Hmm," she says in a playful tone. "And here I thought I was the main course."

"You're a whole meal, Scully," he assures her. "Seven courses at least."

"Good to know," she says, looking a little smug. "Thai on Friday, or do you think that's too spicy for them?"

"You dated Ethan," Mulder reminds her. "You don't remember what he liked?"

Scully rolls her eyes. "Relationships change people," she says. "And no, I don't remember what he liked. A lot of things have happened since then."

"Thai's fine with me," he says. "I'm sure there are some non-spicy options. Or you could ask Jenny when she calls you tonight to tell you about houses."

She makes a non-committal noise. "Then I'll have to hear about all the things that give her heartburn and various other types of indigestion."

"Sounds better than an autopsy report," he offers.

She levels a stern glance at him. "Mulder, stop playing matchmaker. I don't need to be friends with my ex's fiancée."

"Just trying to help," he says innocently. "If it's inevitable, why fight it?"

"Do you even listen to yourself?" she demands. "When have you ever decided not to fight something just because it was inevitable?"

"It's nice," he says. "To see you having some kind of a life, the way you used to. You used to have friends. You used to go on dates. I feel like I took all of that from you, Scully."

"I made a choice," she says fiercely. "I made a lot of choices, Mulder. They were my choices. Don't ever imagine that you could take my agency from me."

"The things that have happened to you since you were assigned to this job," he begins, but she cuts him off.

"None of that is your fault," she says firmly. "I decided to make your cause mine as well. I knew it was dangerous. It was my choice."

"I don't want you living a life that's less than full on my account," he says quietly.

She takes his hand again. "My life isn't less than full," she tells him. "Even if it's not the life I imagined when I was younger. I wanted a pony when I was six. The fact that I don't have one now doesn't mean I haven't realized my dreams. I'm living the life I want."

"It doesn't always seem that way," he says.

"We all have moments of frustrating and wanting something else," she says. "That doesn't mean I'm not happy most of the time, or that I'm unfulfilled. If I'd wanted to leave, Mulder, I would have left. Don't push me away just because you have some other aspirations for me. That isn't fair. You don't get to decide what's safe or right for me without my say."

He nods. "All right."

"What I want right now," she says in a deliberate voice, "is to go out for Thai food with you and Ethan and Jenny on Friday. I want to hear all about how the baby's started kicking and how the painters are finally finished and oh, we should come and see the place once they get all the furniture put together, and how nice, here's our invitation to their baby shower slash housewarming, and gosh, they're coming up on their limit of guests for the wedding but they'd just love if we were able to make it, and isn't it a nice surprise that we all get along so well even though I used to fuck her soon-to-be husband."

"I can see why you'd need some stress relief after that," he says, smiling.

She smiles back. "Remind me what third base is?"

"Uh, everything but," he says, fumbling his words. "If I remember correctly."

"You seem to have retained your expertise despite what seems to be a dry spell," she teases.

"Just happy to be involved," he jokes back, trying very hard not to think about his midnight encounter with an aspiring vampire. He had his own stress to relieve while Scully was missing. Maybe he should have gone to grief counseling instead, but it would have been difficult to explain that he was, in fact, heartbreakingly and completely in love with his partner, who had been assigned to undermine him and then disappeared under mysterious circumstances.

"It's nice that we can have these different facets of our friendship," she says thoughtfully. 

"Definitely," he says. "I wouldn't want to go through this gauntlet with anybody but you, Scully."

She smiles and licks her lips, looking like she might kiss him if they weren't in the office. "Bring your appetite on Friday."

"I will," he assures her, and she lets go of his hand, and they're back to work, as professional as they can be.


	10. Chapter 10

Scully will never believe that she's psychic, but Mulder isn't so sure, because after Thai food and two beers each, they end up at Ethan and Jenny's house, getting the official tour, ooh and ahhing about the various shades of beige that have been carefully selected to wring the maximum of sunlight out of the south-facing windows or something. Mulder's never really cared much about houses. Also, it's night. The south-facing windows are illuminated by a streetlight, but nothing else. Most of the rooms are empty, except for the nursery, which is a shade of yellow that's probably nice in the daylight, but just looks dingy at night. There's a crib there and something that looks like a dresser but probably isn't. He's learned that baby things are almost never what he thinks they are. For example, there's a trash can that he quickly learns is some kind of state of the art diaper bin. 

"It's lovely," Scully says, leaning against him. 

"Cozy," Mulder adds. That seems to be the right response. Ethan and Jenny both beam. 

"Our little nugget is going to be so happy here," Jenny says. She pats the quilt draped over the crib rail. "He's going to grow up so big and strong."

"We just found out it's a boy," Ethan says proudly. 

"Congratulations," Mulder says. "What are you going to name him?"

Jenny whiffs her hand at him playfully, like she would slap at him if she were close enough. "We can't tell. It's a tough world out there when it comes to baby names. Competitive."

"Maybe that's why my parents went the route they did," Mulder jokes. "Nobody else was going to poach 'Fox'." 

"Solid reasoning," Ethan says with a grin orthodontists must have loved. 

"You have to see the master bedroom," Jenny gushes. "It has an en suite bathroom and it just gets the best light in the morning."

"Lead the way," Scully says.

The master bedroom is another masterpiece in beige. Mulder pretends to care about crown molding, nodding as Ethan points at the various features.

"Can't you just imagine it?" Jenny says, cleary in raptures over the vision in her mind. "The bed just here, and we inherited the nicest bedroom set from my grandmother. The dresser here, the vanity there." She gestures, boxing off space in the air with her hands, painting a picture in her own mind.

"It sounds perfect," Scully says. 

"Just wait until you two have a place of your own," Jenny says. "You'll feel the same way."

"I'm sure," Scully says.

"It's too bad my lease isn't up for another six months," Mulder says, trying to fill his voice with regret. "You know, the market just moves so fast. There's not really any point in looking yet."

"I was going to tell you," Scully says to Jenny, "but, um, we were having so much fun discussing it."

"Aww, well, I'm sure there will be plenty of great places when you're ready," Jenny says. "I hope you're just as lucky as we were."

"We can only hope," Mulder says cordially. At least he got some manners out of his abbreviated attempts at charm school, or whatever it was his mother sent him to. Obviously the rest of it didn't take. 

Scully stifles a yawn with one hand. "Oh, look at the time," she actually says, glancing at her watch. Mulder has to cough so he doesn't laugh. "We have an early flight," she goes on. 

"No rest for the watchmen," Mulder says. "Is that how that goes?"

"Do you two work together all the time?" Jenny asks. "I thought you were in different divisions."

"Most of the time," Scully hedges. "Every now and then they remember that we're assigned outside our specialties." 

"We just clicked from the first case," Mulder says smoothly. "They can't justify keeping us apart. Our solve rate is just too good."

"Don't you work on those special cases?" Ethan asks suddenly. "Z-Files?"

"X-Files," Scully says, and there's something wry and wary and fond in her voice. 

"They let us handle all the weird ones," Mulder tells Jenny. "All the ones no one else can solve. That's how talented we are." 

"Well, don't let us keep you," Jenny says. "I wouldn't want you to miss your flight when you're so important!"

"A force for justice," Ethan says. "Good for you both."

"Let us know when you get back," Jenny says. "Maybe I'll cook, if I can still get around the kitchen." 

"Don't sell yourself short," Ethan says, nuzzling at her. "You're an amazing cook and just as light on your feet as ever." Jenny giggles.

"Can't wait," Mulder says. "See you when we get back." He steers Scully down the stairs and out of the house with the arm around her shoulders. She lets out a long breath. 

"'Oh, look at the time'?" he teases as she unlocks her car. 

"I didn't see you doing much better," she mutters. "God, Mulder, there was a time in my life when crown molding mattered to me." 

"Maybe there will be again," he teases, "when we get our own place."

"It had better have south-facing windows," she says.

"It will," he promises. "Only the best for my sweetheart."

"Hypothetically speaking," she says as she climbs into the car and turns the ignition, "what would we be looking for, if we were getting a place together? Obviously two bedrooms at least."

"Obviously," he says. "I mean, there are two of us." 

"That and we have to look like we're planning for the future," she says, squinting at him as she stops at a light. "Whatever that future might be."

"Right," he says. "Because obviously they assume we're sleeping together."

"It would be strange if we weren't," she says. "Ethan knows I don't have any hangups about premarital sex, and you don't strike me as the type to save yourself."

"Until marriage?" he asks.

She smirks. "At all. From any situation. Everything happens to you." She glances over at him. "But in particular, yes, I suspect that like Oscar Wilde, you can resist anything except temptation."

"I've resisted you!" he protests.

"Have you?" She raises one eyebrow.

"We haven't...done everything yet," he says. "Considering how, uh, tempted I was, I've basically shown a superhuman ability to resist."

"What was it when the painters finished?" she asks, her thumb rubbing idly around the curve of her steering wheel. "Third base? 'Everything but', as I believe your unhelpful definition ran?"

"I think that's what we said," he says, as if he hasn't been thinking about it all day.

"Hmm," she says. "Maybe I would want crown molding. It lends a certain dignity to a room. We never had anything like that in base housing."

He'd have intellectual whiplash if he weren't so used to the switchbacks and callbacks of their conversations.

"I think it all comes down to the kitchen," he says. "That's what I hear, anyway."

"Maybe three bedrooms would be better," she muses. "Then we'd have a guest room."

"When would we have guests?" he asks. "It was just the other day that we were talking about how we don't have any friends."

"Fine," she says reluctantly. "It can be an office where you keep all your esoteric news clippings and weird samples."

"I like to think of them as our clippings and samples," he jokes. 

"After more than three years, I suppose that's fair," she says. 

"Joint custody of our collection," he says. "It's a big step." 

"Is it?" she asks. "I've always been assigned the responsibility for it."

"Feels like a big step," he says.

"Bigger than taking off our clothes together?" she asks without looking at him.

He breathes in sharply. "I don't think that's third base."

"And yet it seems like the inevitable conclusion, given the way our relationship with Ethan and Jenny is developing," she says. "I don't anticipate having any less need to decompress."

"Is that...okay?" he asks. 

"I'll keep you updated if anything changes," she says. "For now, I'm...relieved."

He shifts against the seatbelt. "Relieved?"

"It seems like a healthier outlet than drinking the stress away, for example." She shrugs, the motion limited by the stretch of her arms. "Less addictive. Less damaging."

"Plenty of people get themselves in trouble that way," he hedges.

"I think we'll be just fine," she says, her lips curling up at the corners. "If we couldn't help ourselves, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Makes sense," he says. "We would have already just let it happen."

"Exactly," she says. "Maybe years ago. Who knows."

"A surrender to the inevitable," he says. 

"That's what they'll say," she muses. 

"All that matters to me is what you say," he says, letting his head loll on the headrest. 

"Right now I'm saying that I could use a stiff drink," she says, clearly amused with herself. "Or something."

"I can provide that," he tells her.

They park in front of his building and make their way up to his apartment. As soon as they're inside he picks her up. Her legs wrap around his waist as her mouth meets his. She twines her fingers through his hair. He has one arm around her hips and the other under her ass. He is endlessly thankful for the fact that she's been wearing skirts on these dates that aren't quite as constricting as the ones she wears in the office. 

"How would you like to take the edge off, Scully?" he murmurs. "We have a number of options."

"Can I confess something to you?" she asks, kissing her way across his cheek to nip at his earlobe. 

"Of course," he tells her. 

"I've always been intrigued by your oral fixation," she breathes. Her tongue traces the shell of his ear and he shivers.

"How Freudian of you," he says. 

"Take it as you will," she says, and he knows that his grin verges on feral.

"Oh, I will," he says, and lays her out on the couch. She pulls him down on top of her, kissing him lingeringly, her hands smoothing down his sides and over his ass. He braces himself over her and lets himself melt into her mouth. She makes soft little noises and slips her tongue against his. He feels the shock of the contact all down his body. Scully could map him, he's certain, charting the impulses of desire through his bones and his nerves with her deft fingertips, but he has his own promises to keep. He kisses down her throat and between her breasts, rubbing his cheeks against the plane of her stomach and the dip of her flank. It takes the better part of half an hour, or so he imagines. Around Scully, he's always losing time. He plants himself between her knees, the leather cushions creaking under his weight. She reaches down and helps him draw her skirt up over her thighs. He hooks his fingers under the hem of her silky peach-colored panties and eases them down. 

"These aren't the sensible briefs I remember," he teases. 

"I had other expectations for tonight," she says. 

"Lucky you," he says in a low voice calculated to make her shiver, which she does. His college education was good for something after all. He gazes down at her: knees canted gently together, pale thighs, auburn curls. He rubs his palms slowly up and down her calves. She shaved for tonight and her skin is smooth and soft. 

"Third base?" he says, using one finger to nudge her knees apart. She lets them fall to the sides and fuck, he wants her so badly. 

"Step up to the plate," she says, and now he's the one shivering. He tries to lie down on his belly, but he's too tall, and the arm of the couch jams into his thighs. He grunts and sits back up.

"What?" Scully says, and he puts his hands around her hips and lifts her over him as he lies back. She takes the cue and balances over his shoulders. He eases himself down underneath her and helps her settle over his face. The fabric of her skirt tents his head and shoulders, but all he cares about is the curls tickling his lips, and then the soft folds that his tongue teases apart, and then the slick heat of her under his mouth. 

She gasps quietly as he explores her. He's taking his own fucking time, savoring her. She is everything he imagined. He reaches up to tuck her skirt into her waistband, and reaches further to caress her breast. She fumbles the rest of her skirt away from his face and rakes her fingers gently through his hair.

"Mulder," she says like his name is a prayer.

"Mm," he responds, concentrating on the salty-sour tang of her and the way her clit firms at the touch of his tongue. She presses her hand to his, lacing her fingers between his over the swell of her breast. They caress her together. She shows him how hard to squeeze, how to pinch her nipples as he flicks his tongue against her clit. Impatiently, she disentangles her fingers from his and drags her shirt over her head. She unhooks her bra and tosses that onto his coffee table. He lets go of her hip and reaches up with both hands, and together they stroke and knead her breasts. She dips her head and lips at his fingers, sucking them into her mouth. The wet heat of her mouth, the strength of her mouth, is the same warmth and tension he feels when he thrusts his tongue into her cunt. He groans into the space between her thighs and circles her clit with his tongue, slowing his pace deliberately. God, what he wouldn't do for four hands, for multiple mouths, to take in and slide into every part of her at once. 

Her hips are rocking against his face now and he has to let one hand slide from her breast to steady her. He wants this to last. She's slippery and frantic against his mouth, but he won't let her rush. He holds her, slows her, makes her feel every last delicious ounce of friction. She's gasping and groaning and he can feel the shivers running through her body. He adds his own vibrations to hers, moaning against her delicate skin, letting her feel how much he's enjoying her where she can understand it best, right at the root of herself. -

"Please," she gasps, and he gives in, letting his tongue and his fingers move faster, strumming her to a high-pitched jangle of sound and sensation that he can almost feel in his own body as she shakes and shivers, pressing his knees into his shoulders. 

"Oh," she says, "oh, oh, Mulder," and she collapses, catching herself on the arm of the sofa. He helps her climb off him, steadying her as her legs shake, and shifts on the couch to make space for her. She sits next to him and he's going to be thinking of her bare skin on his black leather couch for a long time. He pulls her close with one arm and kisses her head as she catches her breath.

"Curiosity satisfied?" he asks smugly.

"For now," she says. "I'm sure you'll have ample opportunity to satisfy me again."

"Good to know," he tells her. 

Her hand slips toward his belt and he catches it and kisses her knuckles.

"No?" she says. 

"Next time," he promises her. "This was about you. I don't want to complicate that."

"I want to," she says. "I want you."

He groans and kisses her. "I want that too. Next time." 

"What if next time is their housewarming?" she asks. 

"I'm sure we'll have more than a week's notice," he says. "And if it is, I enjoyed myself plenty tonight, believe it or not."

"I believe it," she says, smirking. She leans in and kisses him again, and he's tempted to pull her into his lap and forget all about their careful rationing. But he's made it this far. 

"I'd invite you to stay, but" - he gestures to the couch - "there's not a lot of space."

"Then you'll have to drive next time," she says, "although I'm sure the couch is pretty central to your fantasy."

"I can create a whole new set of fantasies based in your bed," he assures her.

"Good," she says, leaning forward and gathering her bra and panties. She looks at her bra and then bundles it into the waistband of her skirt, but she steps back into her panties, steadying herself on Mulder's shoulder. He drags his fingers up her leg, unable to resist grazing her clit with his thumb one last time through the damp fabric of her panties. She shivers.

"How many innings in a baseball game?" she asks.

"Nine," he says, certain she knows that.

"Maybe some weekend we can play a full game," she says, her eyes half-lidded and dark with desire.

He whistles "Take Me Out To The Ball Game" and she smiles. 

"See you Monday," she says, kissing him one last time, and then the door shuts behind her and he collapses back onto the couch, unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his pants as fast as he can. He wraps fingers still damp from her mouth around his cock, caressing himself, and he can't remember the last time he came so fast. He slumps backwards, panting, and then cleans himself up with shaking hands. 

"Fuck," he says to no one. The fish in their tank gape at him.


	11. Chapter 11

They are actually out of town the next weekend, working a case that Scully, afterwards, refers to as "Scooby-Doo levels of bullshit", a characterization which Mulder can't dispute. What was sent to them as a haunted murder site turned out to be so much smoke and mirrors, worse than the carnival in Florida. At least the geeks there fulfilled their destinies.

He's grown accustomed to being able to work his stress out with Scully, but that doesn't feel right when they're on a case. They step carefully around each other and say goodnight at their separate hotel doors at a reasonable hour.

Maybe she's not the only one who's good at compartmentalizing, he thinks, but he also takes a cold shower.

The Wednesday after they get back, they're bantering back and forth in the office. Scully keeps offering up travel cases like it's a buffet of choices.

"Montana murder," she suggests. "Possible fang marks on the body."

"Pass," Mulder says. "The wolf-man is likely neither wolf nor man. The fang marks are accompanied by contusions that imply that novelty plastic fangs were hammered into the flesh as a distractor."

"Florida," she says.

"No," Mulder says immediately. "Hard pass." He tosses a baseball into the air and catches it.

"Texas oil baron's son?" Scully brandishes a folder at him. 

"Mundane," he says. "There's nothing the local field office can't handle." 

"Usually you're leaping at the chance to add a soupçon of the supernatural to the most straightforward of cases," she grumbles.

"Usually you're trying to unravel all my reasoning," he counters, tossing the baseball to her. She catches it, frowning. "What gives, Scully?"

"Jenny's baby shower is this weekend," she mumbles. "I was hoping to avoid going."

Mulder makes a face that he hopes is sympathetic. "Got the official invite?"

"It came in the mail while we were away," she says. "I can't skip it, not without an excuse."

"Tell me about the Texas oil heir," Mulder says, but she just sighs.

"No," she says, "you're right, it's mundane. And I shouldn't be avoiding Jenny. She wants me to be a part of this celebration. It's not intended as an unkindness." She tosses the ball back.

"There's always food poisoning," Mulder says.

"Stop or I'll make you come gift shopping with me," she says. 

"I'll take my chances," he tells her with a grin. "It seems only fair."

She eyes him over. "Fine. After work."

There is, as it turns out, an infinite variety of baby items available for purchase. There are so many that Mulder considers opening an X-File, as surely the sheer volume of baby-oriented products defies some law of the universe. It feels strange to be shopping together, and not only because they're looking at infant clothing and gadgetry as a couple of childless people. Maybe it's that they're not really a couple. Maybe it's that they've never done much as just friends, their weekend activities of late definitely notwithstanding. Mulder isn't even sure that counts as friendly behavior anymore, although he's afraid that if he brings up the subject of their benefits, Scully will end it. Either way, they make their way through the store, picking out several items. Scully seems to know what babies need, at least, because it's all a mystery to Mulder. He does insists on paying for it.

"It's the least I can do," he says when Scully protests. "Since I can't actually go."

"Fine," she says. "This time."

The cashier nods knowingly. "Still," she says to Scully conspiratorily, "it's sweet that your husband wants to pay."

It isn't the first time they've been mistaken for a married couple and Mulder is sure it won't be the last, but it's different to hear it here and now, with their bag full of baby items, when not that long ago he was panting between her thighs.

"He's a keeper," Scully agrees in a light tone, rubbing Mulder's back. 

They walk out into the slanting evening sun. "So we're playing pretend during the week now, huh?" he asks, shifting the bag of baby stuff from one hand to the other.

Scully shrugs. "It seemed easier." 

He squints into the light. "Want to get dinner, wife of mine?"

"You buying that too?" she asks.

"I know you're an independent woman with a salary of your own," he says, putting his arm around her shoulders, "but sometimes it's nice to feel like somebody has your back and the check."

"Keep it up, Mulder, and I'll pretend to divorce you" she says in a vaguely threatening tone, "but sushi sounds good."

"Sushi it is," he says. 

It's a nicer dinner than they usually have on the road or in the office, but it feels the same: comfortable, friendly, platonic. Mulder expounds on the joys of baseball. Scully pretends to listen. They argue amiably about whether or not the Smithsonian basement contains any extraterrestrial artifacts. After dinner, they walk back to the Hoover Building. Mulder hands off the baby things to Scully. 

"At least you're prepared," Mulder says.

"It's going to be vaguely unbearable no matter how prepared I am," Scully says. 

"I'll stock up on beer and Chinese food just in case you need to unwind afterwards," Mulder tells her. 

She laughs softly. "That's optimistic of you. How do you know I won't want to go home to a bottle of wine and a pint of ice cream?"

"I can provide options," Mulder says. 

"I'm sure you can," she says, looking off across the garage with that middle-distance squint that means she's thinking about something. 

"You know I'll be up either way," he says. "You can complain to me about all the baby games."

"Tempting," she says, digging out her keys. He waits until she gets in and then closes the door for her. She rolls down the window. "See you tomorrow, Mulder. Thanks for dinner."

"Any time," he says, and watches her drive out of the garage.

The rest of the week is ordinary. They don't go out of town, although they do have to take a few phone calls for consults. Scully doesn't mention anything else about the baby shower, although she does have him sign a card. He goes to the gym on Saturday, plays some basketball with whoever's around, works up a sweat. He cleans his place, just in case, and around seven, he orders enough Chinese food for two and hits up the store on the corner for a six-pack, a bottle of red wine, and several pints of ice cream. Either he'll have Scully to entertain, or he'll have Scully supplies for the future. He showers, turns on the tv, and tries not to worry about it, but after a little while, there's a knock.

"Ice cream or General Tso's?" he asks as he opens the door, but Scully just reaches up and pulls him down for a hard kiss, closing the door with her body. She sighs into his mouth and he slips his arms around her. 

"I want something else right now," she says when she releases him. She puts her hand on the button of his jeans and slides it lower, making her meaning clear. "Please."

"Uh, yeah," he says. "If you're sure."

"I'm absolutely certain," she says, and who is he to deny a lady what she says she needs? His jeans are around his knees by the time he gets to the couch, and he lifts his hips so Scully can slide his boxers down too. She kneels in front of him, running her hands up his thighs. He was half-hard from the moment that she knocked and he's fully at attention now. She wraps her fingers around his cock with a thoughtful expression and then her mouth is descending over him. Her tongue swirls over his head and down his shaft. He groans. Scully is just as adept at fellatio as she is at most things; he would have expected nothing less, but he was hoping he'd be able to hold himself together a little better. It's like she's sifted through their years over conversations to determine exactly what will undo him the fastest. 

Her fist is around the base of his cock, squeezing gently. Her tongue traces the veins along his shaft. She takes him in deeper and deeper, until he's slick with her saliva and she can pump her fist without catching the delicate skin. The friction of her fingers and the slippery heat of her mouth are a delicious study in contrasts. He tries not to thrust, letting her set the pace, but he can't keep his hands from caressing her hair, the nape of her neck, her shoulders, what he can reach of her collarbone. She's wearing a shirt with a relatively low neckline and he can glimpse her breasts and the shadow of her cleavage. Maybe one day his cock will be between her tits instead of in her hand. There are so many incredible options, if this happy little charade continues. 

He leans forward and reaches into her shirt, rolling her nipple between his fingers as he lifts her breast out of her bra. She arches up, giving him more access, and he reaches for the other breast. Her head nudges against his stomach and his back is less than happy, but god damn, she's taking him in and he wants to touch her. He needs to touch her. Nothing turns him on more than her pleasure, not even her mouth. She draws back a little to work her tongue around his head again, and he's groaning. He squeezes her breasts gently. At least being curled over means that he can't really rock his hips into her face, though he can't help jolting a little as she takes him in. Her mouth is velvety and hot, and all he wants to do is melt against her tongue. He wonders if she's relishing the bitter taste of him.

"Fuck," he says, because it's about the only word he has left aside from her name. "Scully." 

"Mmm," she says, and the vibration of her throat makes him shiver. She moans quietly around him as he palms her breasts. Every flick of her tongue makes him brim with desire. He wants to tug at her hair. He wants to fuck her mouth until she swallows him. He wants to make her scream his name.

"I want you," he says inarticulately. "I want to taste you."

She groans at that and releases him, and somehow they manage to fumble her pants off. He lies back props his head on his pillow and pulls her hips back as she straddles his shoulders, and then her mouth is around his cock again and all he can do is bury his face in her cunt. He nudges apart her folds with his nose and she's so fucking wet. He licks all along her as she does the same to him, the two of them giving and receiving tit for tat. He caresses her breasts with one shaking hand and slides the fingers of the other inside her, first one and then another, until she's rocking back against his hand. He slips his fingers out again and uses his wet hand to draw her back, holding her steady as he applies his tongue to her clit. She makes a high-pitched noise, sounding almost surprised. 

He's close. Every movement of her body brings him closer to the edge, whether it's the way the muscles of her thighs tense or the swirl of her tongue over his frenulum or the way her fingers drift down to caress his balls. He wraps both arms around her hips, holding her as his frantic mouth explores her cunt. He tongue-fucks her as she pins him with an arm across his belly. His knees splay as she bears down on him, taking him deeper and deeper until he can't stand it. He's groaning into her, sucking at her clit, and then he's coming into her mouth as her fingernails rake gently across his balls. She just holds him steady and swallows, only releasing him when she's licked him clean. He pulls her back onto his face with one rough motion, reaching for her breasts again, licking and sucking and fucking her with his fingers and tongue until she's shaking against him, crying out, her arms shivering as she tries to brace herself. He pushes his fingers deeper into her. He wants to feel the clutch of her inner muscles around him. He wants her to feel filled by him. She shouts something that isn't words, but still sounds like a prayer, and her whole body jolts, the spasms of her cunt drawing his fingers deeper in. 

"Ah fuck," she says against his hipbone.

"Yeah," he agrees, and supports her as she tips herself off the couch. 

"I'm definitely hungry now," she says, wiping her mouth with one hand. 

"Sorry," he says. "No pants, no service."

"Neither of us is wearing pants," she points out. "I thought you were enjoying it."

"It's policy," he says. "Got to have pants for dinner."

She gets up and drags her trousers back on. He's pretty sure her panties are still under his coffee table and she looks wobbly, like her knees are weak. "Ta-da," she says. 

He sits up and reaches for his boxers and his jeans, pulling them both on in one motion. "Now we can eat."

"I won't mention that you already ate out," she teases. 

"Mmhmm," he says with satisfaction. "Now I'm going to eat in." He goes to the sink to wash his hands and then opens the stapled-shut bag of Chinese food. The contents still seem warm enough. He sets out the boxes as Scully washes her own hands and gets plates out of the cabinets. "Your social event was that bad, huh?"

"I don't want to talk about it," she says. "But please remind me if I ever have reason to host one that we're not playing the stupid leg-crossing game."

"Noted," he says. 

"What's the movie?" she asks, uncapping a beer and taking a long swig. 

"You've got a choice between _Nell_ and _Naked Gun_ ," he says. 

"At least it's not _Dumb And Dumber_ ," she grumbles. 

"I can still go to the video store if you're jonesing for Jim Carrey," he says.

"I'm all jonesed out, thanks," she says dryly, dishing herself a heap of rice and chicken. "Is there ice cream?"

"I got one of every flavor Ben and Jerry had in stock," he says. "I think you'll find something to satisfy you."

She smirks like the cat in the cream. "Good to know."

"So?" he says. "Nell?"

"A better film," she says, "but too much like research."

" _Naked Gun_ it is," he says. He carries his own loaded plate and his beer to the living room and sets them on the coffee table while he puts the movie in. They settle onto the couch, which definitely smells like sex now, a fact he'll no doubt consider after she leaves. She leans against him, just lightly enough for plausible deniability, and Mulder presses play on the remote.


	12. Chapter 12

Mulder wakes up with Scully's hair in his mouth. He doesn't remember falling asleep, but somehow they're both curled up on his couch. His body is cupped around hers, a balustrade between her and the edge. His arm is draped over her and she has her hands clasped over his. He closes his eyes again and breathes her in, the faint and fading scents of shampoo and perfume overlaid by a delicate note of sweat and just a hint of booze. Now that he's thinking of it, they ended up watching Nell too, though they were paying more attention to the bottle of wine and the swiftly-melting pints of ice cream than to Jodie Foster's exquisite portrayal of a wild girl reminiscent of the Jersey Devil. He vaguely recalls their conversation: Scully, telling him all about the baby shower, about her own worries about bringing a child into a world full of dangers, about her fears that she won't ever even have the option. He remembers pulling her close, kissing the top of her head, and assuring her that he'll defend her hopes and dreams with his life and get to the bottom of the mysteries that have consumed some part of her.

His bladder aches. He's got morning wood and it isn't exactly comfortable. His head is throbbing a little from the potent combination of alcohol and sugar. But more than any of that, his heart is knocking against his ribs like it grew three sizes. He sighs against the round of her skull. He'd swear to himself if he knew he wouldn't wake her. 

He's been half in love with Dana Scully since a rainy graveyard in Oregon, completely gone since a blinding light at the top of a mountain revealed him to himself even as it took her. But he's been able to keep it under wraps until now. 

He doesn't think he'll be able to anymore.

He eases away from her. She stirs and murmurs, but doesn't wake up. He gazes down at her. She's frowning, just a little. He wonders if she'll wake with the same twinges. It would be too much to hope that her love for him is expansive enough to contain romance. She's made it clear that their playacting is nothing but theater. But he at least hopes that she'll open her eyes happier than she was last night.

Before he goes to shower, he puts on a pot of coffee. Maybe between the two, he can clear his head. When he emerges, trying to keep his pajama bottoms from slipping down his hips, Scully is sipping coffee in his kitchen. She winces a little, but he's pretty sure it isn't the sight of his bare chest that does it.

"I, ah, let go a little last night," she says.

"You needed it," he reassures her, reaching for a mug and pouring himself some coffee. 

"Thank you," she says.

"Any time," he tells her. "Any of it. Any time."

"I have to admit I'm enjoying the benefits of our arrangement," she says. 

"They're extremely beneficial," he agrees. 

"Perhaps it could continue," she suggests. "I'm hoping that after the baby is born that our friendship with Ethan and Jenny will inevitably peter out, but this...is nice." She rolls her shoulders. "Despite the way my back feels after spending the night on your couch."

"That's fine with me," he says.

"We're doing all right, aren't we?" she asks. "At keeping this separate from work? At having boundaries?"

"Definitely," he says, though his heart thuds. "Strict parameters."

"I just wouldn't want to lose what we have," she says, her eyes searching his face. "It means so much to me."

"I feel the same," he says, and it's not a lie. He wants more, but more than that, he doesn't want to interfere with the relationship they already have. She's a pillar of his life. Adding romance to the mix wouldn't be worth any temporary happiness if it changed the fundamental alchemy of their friendship. She turns him to gold. But still, looking at her drinking coffee in his kitchen with the morning light in her mussed hair, it would be easy to tell her that he loves her, and to sweep her up in his arms. 

Instead he sips at his coffee and just fills himself up with the sight of her.

Later, he goes to the bank. He rarely visits his safety deposit box, but he did eventually move everything down to DC. He rifles through the stock certificates and whatever other papers his father left him until he finds the jewelry box underneath that holds his grandmother's ring. Ethan isn't the only one with an heirloom. He opens the box and lets the diamonds catch the light. It's a little ostentatious, in his opinion, and he doesn't think that it's really Scully's style either, but at least it will give her a moment of triumph, since that seems to be what she needs when it comes to this whole situation with Ethan and Jenny. He snaps the box shut. He'll take it to the jewelers, get it clean and sized to fit her, and it'll be a nice surprise for the next time they have dinner. And after that, she can keep it. He wasn't expecting to get it back when Diana left. He doesn't plan on ever giving it away again.

Their next dinner isn't dinner. They have brunch at some new place, biscuits and gravy and eggs over easy. The food is good enough and plentiful enough to make conversation mostly unnecessary. They order a pitcher of orange juice-based mocktails in deference to Jenny's condition. Mulder's glad. He doesn't need anything dulling his senses. Jenny tears apart the last morsels of an orange roll that was almost the size of her head.

"So good!" she says. "Don't you agree, Dana?"

"Delicious," Scully agrees, alternating between fruit salad and eggs Benedict on a biscuit. They all tried the orange roll. Jenny insisted. It was good. He doesn't have any memories of his parents baking to compare it to.

"Thanks for making the time," Ethan says. "Now that the house is all settled, we're swamped with wedding planning. Appointments all afternoon and we're trying out some places for the rehearsal dinner over the next few weeks."

"Starting tonight," Jenny says. "We're just hoping for something that's contemporary but classic."

"Sort of a fusion between modern and traditional," Ethan agrees. 

"Of course," Scully says gravely, as if she doesn't believe that words have meaning. 

"Must be something in the air," Mulder says. "Seems like weddings are all that's on anyone's mind."

"Everybody wants a June wedding," Jenny says. "We really should have all this nailed down by now, but, well, you understand the complications."

"I'm more of an October wedding type myself," Mulder says. "Autumn is so atmospheric. Fallen leaves. Cider doughnuts. Sunny afternoons and foggy nights."

"You would want an October wedding," Scully murmurs.

"I would," he says, looking at her. He eases closer to the edge of his chair, and then, before he can think about it, he's out of his seat and kneeling next to hers. He reaches into his pocket for the jewelry box. 

"Fox," she says.

"What do you say, Dana?" he asks. "Red leaves and your red hair. A nice little ceremony in an orchard, or in a little church with a view of the sea. We can honeymoon in a bed and breakfast somewhere with a fireplace in every room."

She looks at him with wide blue eyes. He no longer knows or cares if there's anyone else in the room. 

"Will you marry me, Dana?" he asks softly. 

"Will the bed and breakfast be haunted?" she says at last, her voice barely above a whisper. 

He smiles, still kneeling. "Do you want it to be?"

"I don't believe in ghosts," she says, "but it sounds romantic."

He opens the jewelry box and offers it up to her. "Then I'll book the most haunted B&B in New England," he promises.

She reaches out to touch the ring, running her fingertips delicately over the cut facets of the diamonds. "Yes," she says. "I'll marry you. Yes." 

He stands up, slips the ring onto her finger, and pulls her up for a kiss. She tips her face up to his. They melt into each other. He doesn't know what's going through her mind, but at least her mouth is enthusiastic against his. 

When they pull apart, the whole restaurant is clapping. Jenny's crying. Ethan rubs her shoulders. 

"That was so sweet!" Jenny sobs. Ethan hands her a napkin. 

"Hmm," Scully says, still snug against Mulder's body. Her hand with the ring is braced against his chest, the better to show it off. "He has his moments."

Mulder pulls out his wallet and tosses some money onto the table. "Let me know if this doesn't cover it," he says. "I think we've got some things to discuss."

"Go right ahead," Ethan says. "And congratulations!"

"Thank you," Mulder says, and steers Scully out of the restaurant. The dreamy smile on her face fades only slightly as she gets into his car.

"That was inspired," she says. 

"Just a little something I cooked up," he says.

"And whose ring am I wearing?" she asks, holding it so it catches the light.

He makes a noncommittal noise. "Yours."

"And before it was mine?" she asks. "I admit I'm not up on the current styles, but it looks like it has a story."

"My grandmother's," he says. That's true, if not the whole truth. 

"Hmm," she says. "It's lovely."

"I don't know anything about jewelry," he says, shrugging as he drives. "Just used what I had on hand." 

"You always manage to surprise me," she tells him. "It might have been nice to have a little notice today."

"Theoretically, you've had months of notice," he teases. "And I needed you to look shocked." 

"It was a hell of an escalation," she says. "Are we going to have to get fake married now?"

"I guess that depends," he muses. "How long are Ethan and Jenny going to be in our lives?"

"I wish I knew," she says, looking out the window. 

"I'll start looking into haunted B&Bs," he tells her. "Just in case."

"Probably a good idea," she says. "Mulder."

He turns onto her street. "Hmm." 

"I know it isn't their housewarming today, and that might break our rules, but I think we've been on third base long enough." Her hand drops to his thigh. 

"And here I thought I was going to get in trouble," he says as her fingers wander from his knee to his groin and back.

"Oh, you'll definitely be in trouble," she promises. "But you always enjoy that."

"I can't even deny it," he says, parking the car.

They don't kiss against the car. They don't kiss against her door. They don't fall madly onto her couch. She leads him into her bedroom. He skims her blouse over her head. She unbuttons his shirt. She unhooks her own bra as he undoes her skirt and kisses the place where her shoulder meets her neck. Her fingers make short work of his belt and his pants fall to his ankles. He kicks out of them and toes off his shoes and socks. Scully leaves her shoes on, and he's glad for the height of her heels. His lips mumble along her collarbone and up the slant of her throat as his hands rise to her breasts. She scratches her nails delicately down his back and then drops out of his hold to push his boxers down his legs. She kisses his hipbone and lips briefly at his cock. As she rises, he returns the favor, sliding down her body to shuck her out of her panties. They look at each other, completely naked for the first time since they began this endeavour, and then she holds out her hand and leads him to her bed.

They spend a long time just kissing, their bodies pressed against each other. Touching her is like listening to his favorite French songs from high school: she's a language he never quite forgot how to speak. He's always known her by heart. Despite their limited experience in body-to-body communication, he's fluent in the soft sounds she makes and the way she rises against him. 

At long last, she rolls away and reaches into the drawer of her bedside table for a condom. He sits up, bracing himself against the headboard of her bed. She hands him the condom and he rips open the packet and rolls it on. She watches him quietly. He tosses the packet away and beckons to her.

"Come here, Scully," he says. 

She swings her knee over his legs and hovers over his hips. He sleeks his hands down her sides and waits, gazing up at her. She leans down to kiss him.

"You ready?" he asks.

"So ready," she says. He reaches down and steadies his cock as she eases onto him. She makes a pleased little noise and grinds down against him. He draws her closer for a kiss as they start to move together. He thrusts up into her and she's just as tight and hot around him as he always dreamed. He hopes he fills her up the way she longed for; the way she rises and falls over him seems to satisfy her. He reaches for her clit, wanting to feel her shiver, and she moans against his lips. Every sound she makes sends sparks through him. 

I love you, he says, and he isn't sure he says it out loud, but he says it with every touch, with every kiss. He laces his fingers through her hair as she presses her forehead against his. The space between them is filled with humid heat, her breath and his breath mingling, the sweat starting to dapple their skin. It feels like a thunderstorm brewing. They move in sync, rising and falling like clouds swelling across the plains. Pleasure rolls through him like distant thunder. He could calculate their pleasure counting the seconds between each rock of their hips. One one thousand, two one thousand, and he's lost in her kisses again, in the way her fingers dig into his muscles, in the way she arches backward so that he can rasp his jaw across her breasts. She spreads her legs, taking him in deeper, and he swears under his breath and tugs at her nipples with his lips, making her gasp. She comes back up and he loops his free arm around her and holds her to him as she rides him faster and faster. He puts his tongue in the hollow of her throat and sucks at her flushed skin. He might leave a mark on her. It seems only fair. He's sure she'll look dashing in an ascot. 

Pleasure rumbles through him again, louder and more insistent now, and he can feel the tension building in her body. He wants her to come first. He needs her to come first. He wants to feel her shudder around him. He wants to hold her as she comes apart so that she knows he'll always be there in her hour of need. He rubs quick circles around her clit. Her thighs quiver around his hips. She gasps out his name in exclamation and entreaty, and he jolts up into her and watches her come undone. He thought she'd close her eyes when she came, but she gazes straight at him in something like worship. Something like love. She's rosy and dewy and glowing with satisfaction, and she whispers her need to him, coaxing him on to his own climax, and he feels the lightning strike him as she covers his face with kisses. There's always a moment between the flash and the boom, but when it hits, his whole body shakes. Scully holds him, murmuring to him, stroking his hair with one hand and his chest with the other, her forehead pressed to his again.

After a moment, they pull themselves together. She sprawls next to him, stretching out her hand to make the ring catch the light again. He gets up and pulls off the condom, tying it off and tossing it into her bathroom trash before coming back to lie next to her.

"It was a bold move," she says. "From fake dating to fake engaged."

"I'll fake marry you if I have to," he says with a shrug, which would work better if he wasn't horizontal. 

"I'm Catholic," she says. "There are classes to go to, even for a sham wedding."

"I can be an excellent student when it's necessary," he promises. 

"No, you wouldn't," she says. "You'd have to apologize for living in sin, and I don't think you're sorry."

"Give me half an hour or so and I'll show you how not sorry I am," he says, yawning. 

She nestles against him. "Thank you for doing all of this for me," she says.

"I'd do anything for you, Scully," he tells her, stroking her back. "I hope you know that."

"Sometimes 'anything' has limits you don't know about until you run up against them," she says. "But I'm glad to know you'd lie in front of a priest to protect my pride."

"Who says it would be a lie?" he says. "At least then I could see you if you were in the hospital. It would solve several problems for us if we got married."

"It might cause some others," she says. 

"Keep me updated," he tells her. "That way I'll know whether to get a license."

"Mulder." She props herself up on one elbow. "You don't really want to get married."

"It's a possibility," he says. "I could love, honor, and respect you. I might even obey."

"I don't think you can go that far," she says, but she's smiling. "I do like the idea of no man being able to put this asunder."

"Something to think about," he offers.

She drapes her arm over his chest and props her chin on the back of her hand. "Somehow I never imagined a fake wedding when I was a little girl."

"It doesn't have to be fake," he says. 

"You're a romantic," she says. "I always thought you'd marry for love."

"That's still the plan." He tries to gaze steadily at her, but it's hard to focus at this angle. 

"Oh," she says after a moment.

"I won't hold you to that yes," he says, looking up at the ceiling. Her bedroom is so nice and bright. 

"I'll think about it," she says. He can hear wonder in her voice. He understands the hesitation. It's a seismic shift, the ground beneath her feet suddenly clouds. He's astride the elephant in the room, inviting her up. He must be falling asleep, because his ideas aren't making sense anymore.

"You can keep the ring either way," he tells her. "I wanted you to have it. It looks good on you."

"It does," she says. "I'll keep wearing it. For now."

"Hell of a brunch," he says. 

"Yeah," she agrees. "You really hit that home run out of the park." She yawns. "I'll take you up on that offer of a double play."

"That's not what a double play is," he teases, shifting and drawing the blanket over them both. 

"I never got the hang of baseball metaphors," she says, nuzzling against him. He kisses her forehead. After a pause, she leans up to kiss him lingeringly and then settles against him. His arm's going to fall asleep, but he doesn't move. He's happy just holding her. He's happy.


	13. Chapter 13

He wakes up to an empty bed and the sound of running water. 

"Scully?" he says, lifting his head. 

Her voice drifts in. "In here."

He gets up, dragging his boxers back on, and wanders into the bathroom. The tub is half-full of frothy water. Scully is bent over adjusting the taps, wrapped in a fluffy robe. She tests the water with her hand and smiles at him. "Take a bath with me," she says.

"Sure," he says. "Uh, I would like to, uh, pee first." It's embarrassing to admit for some reason, despite the fact that she knows he evacuates waste, and he's definitely had to do weirder things in her presence. She gets up and motions to the bathroom.

"All yours," she says.

He pees. It's not the first time he's used her bathroom, but it's the first time after they've had sex, genuine intercourse that not even an adventurous Catholic school student could rationalize away. He's careful with his aim and he even lowers and wipes the seat after, just in case, and then washes his hands. When he opens the door, she's coming back from the kitchen with two glasses of ice water. She hands one to him.

"Thanks," he says. He is thirsty. He takes a long swig while she fiddles with the taps and finally turns the water off. She sips at her water and sets the glass on the sink before dropping her robe in one smooth movement. She stands in front of him, unselfconscious, and there's nothing he can do but shed his boxers. She's so reserved that sometimes he forgets that she's relatively practical about her body. He assumes that has something to do with the years she's spent studying anatomy. He takes another swallow of water and sets his glass on the other side of the sink.

"Shall we?" he says. 

She smiles and climbs carefully into the tub, tucking herself forward against the front. He clambers in behind her and brackets her with his legs. She leans back and the bubbles pop between his chest and her shoulders. He lets his arms slip around her. He doesn't know where the limits are anymore. He'd rather be tentative than run up against some invisible boundary. But they're naked together and in the bath with the smell of lavender rising up around them, so the rules have obviously changed.

"Mulder," she says, as if it isn't just the two of them, always.

"Hmm." He lets his arm rub gently against her breasts and she sighs happily.

"Do you really want to marry me?"

He blows out a breath. He can feel it deflecting off her shoulder. "You don't mince words, do you, Scully?"

"It's expedient to get to the heart of things," she says, shaping the bubbles idly between her palms.

"Begin with a Y-incision," he says. 

"And yet you're still evading my question," she says. 

"The man I was pretending to be definitely wants to marry the woman you were pretending to be," he says thoughtfully. 

"Fair enough," she says. "I hope the man I was in bed with wasn't pretending anything, because he stuck to the same story."

"It would be convenient in some ways," he hedges. "I'm tired of arguing with hospital staff who won't let me see you."

"Mulder," she says firmly. 

He takes a deep breath and presses his lips to her hair. "Yes," he says finally. "I want to marry you."

"Why?" she asks. "Aside from the convenience." 

"Because I fucking love you," he says. He's frustrated and embarrassed and overwhelmed and lovelorn. He never imagined confessing to the back of her head while they were both naked. He feels soft around the edges, and it isn't pruning from the bathwater. "I don't even know how long it's been. I realized, when you were taken, but I don't know when it started. This whole pretending-to-date thing was imaginary and then it wasn't. Maybe it never was, for me."

"And so you proposed?" she asks. 

"I know how much this has worn on you," he says. "I just wanted you to have a moment where you might feel like your life was falling into place, even if you thought it was pretend."

"That was kind of you," she says after a pause. "Or at least intended well."

"You know what they say about good intentions," he says. "But I know it's been tough on you, trying to be friends with them. I recognize that."

"It isn't tough on you?" she asks.

"I haven't had a dream like that in a while," he says. "The house, the family. It didn't seem to be something I could aspire to. So no, it wasn't hard for me. I didn't have to pretend that I wanted to be your boyfriend. Every week was like a glimpse of something I never imagined I could have, but I never wanted what they had."

"I see," she says. He doesn't need to see her face to know she's wearing that serious expression, the one that refines the concept of gravitas, or maybe gravity. 

"Sorry," he says.

The water sloshes as she moves. "Sorry for what, Mulder?"

"I don't know," he says. "It seems unfair, that I was living out this scenario that I was invested in to a different degree than you were. It seems like false pretenses. You didn't really have a chance to agree to play along."

"Have you ever known me to play along when I didn't want to?" Scully asks.

He considers it. "No." 

She snorts. "Aren't you a profiler?"

"I play one on tv," he jokes. 

She turns, the water washing back and forth between them, and braces her hands on his thighs as she kneels on the floor of the tub. "So," she says. "Profile me."

"You saw your ex and panicked," he says, unable to keep himself from gazing at her. Her skin is slick and flushed and daubed with bubbles. "I provided a plausible cover story to alleviate your distress."

"Plausible why?" she asks.

"I'm a handsome guy," he teases. "Not quite in your league, but it's a convincing enough match."

"And why is that, Agent Mulder?" she asks, her voice low and even. 

"Our intimacy is apparent even to strangers," he theorizes. "Society doesn't have many models of platonic heterosexual friendship, and here I could but won't quote When Harry Met Sally. Hence the tendency to mistake us for a couple, even a married couple." 

"And from where does that intimacy derive?" she asks.

"Whence does the principle of life proceed?" he quotes, striving for whimsy. "We have a history. We've shared a number of remarkable experiences, even traumatic ones. It's made us close. I'd hazard even closer than most partners in law enforcement. I certainly didn't make out with Jerry or Reggie. Or even Krycek."

"And?" she says, leaning closer. 

"And what?" he asks, extremely distracted by her approaching cleavage. 

"You said yourself most partners aren't this close," she says. "Despite their own remarkable experiences. Why are you and I believable as a couple when other partners weren't?"

He shunts away any thought of Diana. "I guess I'm not the profiler I thought I was. What am I missing, Doctor Scully?"

She laughs, but it catches in her throat. "What are you missing?"

He shrugs. The bubbles rock on the surface of the water. "Maybe our inside jokes give it that hint of verisimilitude. I don't know. I've nev...I'm not married. "

"I'm in love with you, you idiot," she says quietly. 

"What?" he says.

"I'm in love with you," she repeats. 

"Uh," he says. 

"That's not exactly the response I expected," she says, leaning away from him. He reaches out for her.

"This is not the turn I expected my day to take," he says quickly. "We're naked in the tub together and you're saying things I only imagined when I was drugged out of my mind, Scully. I just need a second to process. And maybe you should pinch me."

"I'm not going to pinch you," she says. "Why did you hesitate when you said you weren't married?"

He sighs. "I was engaged once. To one of my other former partners. Diana. She didn't leave me at the altar, exactly, but she did take an international assignment between the engagement and the wedding. In the year between losing her and meeting you, I threw myself into my work. Spooky Mulder, all alone down in the basement."

He can see the pain in her eyes, the urge to retreat into herself, to swathe herself in terrycloth and detachment. "No wonder you tried to keep me at arm's length."

"Didn't work," he says. He catches at her fingers. "Hey. Scully."

"Sometimes I forget I don't know everything about you," she murmurs, not meeting his eyes. 

He kisses her damp palm. "Now you know everything about me," he promises. 

"I didn't know you were in love with me," she says.

"I didn't know you were in love with me," he says, "so that's fair. You talked such a good game about how much our friendship meant to you."

"It did," she says. "It does." She sighs. "There was a moment in the restaurant where I was completely thrilled. Even when I remembered that it was pretend, I loved you for doing that for me. But it's hard to know that it wasn't the first time you'd asked someone." 

"If it helps, I didn't get down on one knee in public," he says. "I barely proposed at all. It was more of an agreement."

"But you gave her this ring," she says, looking at it. 

He nods. "It didn't fit her. Must have been a metaphor. I got it sized for you."

She flexes her fingers. "You knew my ring size."

"I like to think I know most things about you," he offers, "but I also believe your enigmatic nature is part of your charm."

She looks squarely at him. "What are we going to do?" 

"I thought we were going to finish our bath," he says. "Maybe get all sweaty again almost immediately. Decide where we wanted to have our haunted honeymoon."

"Planning the honeymoon before the wedding?" she says. "Sounds like something there should be a superstition about."

"We don't have to," he says. "We don't have to do any of it. If you want me to leave, we can start again from square one or square whatever, whenever you're ready. If you're ready. We don't have to deal with this today."

She purses her lips. "'This' being the fact that I'm in love with you and you're in love with me and it's possible that we're engaged despite never having actually been in an relationship?" 

"'This' was shorter," he says. 

She sighs and turns back around, settling against his chest. He loops his arms around her and rests his cheek against her head. It's always strange to be at odds with Scully, when all he wants when he's upset is to seek comfort in her company. 

"We could still get married," he murmurs. 

"It might not be the easiest thing to explain to my mother," she says.

"I don't know about that," he says, remembering Maggie's gentleness during Scully's abduction. "But we could elope."

"If we did, we wouldn't have to invite Ethan and Jenny," Scully muses. "My mother might forgive me. Bill's wedding was enough for all of us."

"Or we could pretend none of this ever happened," he offers. 

"Are you going to walk up to me in a bar?" she teases. "Introduce yourself, try to get a date."

"I told you, I'm not in your league." He kisses the side of her head. "We could stay in this bath forever."

"The water would get cold," she counters. 

"Then I guess we can mark that off the list of options," he says. "What's left?"

"I think that covers it," she says. "Either move forward or pretend we can go back to the beginning."

"Be kind, rewind," he quips. "We've had a lot of practice playing pretend at this point."

"I'm not sure acting is my forte," she murmurs. 

"Once more into the breach," he offers. 

"That's a hell of a way to proposition a lady," she jokes. She turns in his arms again, tipping her face up to his. Her body is warm and slippery against his. He shifts his arms to steady her. 

"I'm not the world's foremost authority on seduction," he says. 

"No," she agrees, "but you've got a certain appeal." She stretches up to kiss him. "As an empiricist, it seems to me that the only way to see if this will work is to try it."

"I've always admired your scientific rigor," he says. 

"And my breasts?" she teases.

"Those too," he agrees.

"Make me believe," she says, and kisses him.


	14. Chapter 14

They almost make love in the bathtub (he wants to think that they almost fuck, but it's all too tender for that, after their confessions). The water bears up both their bodies so that they exist in a state of half-weightless grace, her hips cantilevered over his, his arms pressing her closer. The only gravity is their two hearts pulling together. The water on their skin seals every gap between them. Her mouth hovers over his, wavering back and forth in a holding pattern. They've kissed once already. If they kiss again, it will be the end of something precious. Something new and glorious will rise from the ashes of what was, but that doesn't mean that they won't, for a moment, mourn what they're losing. 

Her breath puffs against his lips and washes softly over his face, evenly at first and then faster. The tide is rising inside them both, love and lust welling up from a place so deep they've both sublimated it for years. Secret compartments under the floorboards of their souls. Smuggler's habits ingrained so deep they've hypnotised themselves into forgetting the cargo they carried. Once they crack the seal, there'll be no going back. And there's treasure inside, oh yes, treasure beyond reckoning. All the same, that life will be over, and oh, they have loved it and fought for it and framed out a space for themselves that was no one else's. 

The yearning swells inside him until he can't bear it. Scully makes a quiet desperate noise and her mouth descends over his. They go up in flames, a phoenix formed from two hearts. He's half-surprised that the bathwater doesn't simmer around them. Their hands slide over each other, remapping familiar territory in this new context. This time, she isn't concerned with where he hurts. He isn't searching for evidence of wrongdoing. They're reevaluating each other's bodies as sites of worship, consecrating their former scars with pleasure. She molds him anew out of the clay of his flesh, her deft little hands shaping him into a finer version of himself. And all the while, their mouths move over and over each other, lips and teeth and tongues in delicious juxtaposition. 

"We have to get out," he whispers against the corner of her mouth. "If we do this here, there will be water everywhere and I didn't see a Slippery When Wet sign anywhere, so there's nothing to protect us."

"Wouldn't that be the way it happened?" she murmurs back. 

"Finally, finally, the rapture comes," he says as she raises her head, "and one of us breaks a leg slipping on your tile or the landlord starts complaining about the flood or Jesus himself shows up to scold us."

"Is that what the rapture is?" she asks, wedging her way out of the tub like an intrepid climber. She reaches for a towel and starts to dry herself. 

"I have to confess I don't know much about Jesus," he tells her, sitting up. His erection juts out of the water like a submarine breaching. Scully reaches into the tub and pulls the plug from the drain, letting her fingers trail over his body as she straightens up. The water gurgles away, leaving him covered in stray clots of suds. He splashes the dregs over himself until he's reasonably soap-free and levers himself up with both arms. Scully hands him a towel. He rubs himself down. She watches him appreciatively. He reaches over her to hang the towel, not quite pinning her between his body and the wall, watching her eyes for any trace of reluctance. She just blinks approvingly at him; blue means go.

"I thought I'd carry you over the threshold," he says with studied casualness. Scully deserves to be swept off her feet, but her fight instinct is well-honed at this point. 

"I'm afraid to tell you we're not in a fit state to leave the house," she says.

"Your bedroom has a threshold," he says. "I thought I'd train up to the front door."

"How unexpectedly wise," she says, hooking an elbow around his neck. 

"I have my moments," he says, bending to slip his arms under her knees and her back, lifting from the legs as he hefts her. He likes the solidness of her in his embrace, the way he has to lean against her counterweight to maintain the equilibrium between them. She cuddles close against his chest and opens the door so he can step through it.

"That's teamwork," he says against her temple. She laughs that low bubbly Scully chuckle that feels like he's winning a prize every time he coaxes it out of her. He carries her the few steps to her bedroom and lays her carefully on the bed. She drags him down for a kiss with the arm that's still around his neck. He surrenders to her gravity and drops over her, catching himself on his elbows and knees. Her arm flails out at the bedside table until her fingers catch the drawer handle. He digs for the condom himself this time and sits back on his haunches to deal with it. 

"I like that you're prepared for any eventuality," he says, ripping the foil open carefully.

"I was thinking of you when I bought them," she says, and his cock twitches in his fist as he rolls the latex down. His heart thumps too. 

"Oh?" he says.

She licks her lips. "Maybe not as vividly as you would have liked, but I entertained the notion."

"Did you," he says, amused. 

"Mm," she says. 

"Semper paratus," he quips. "I always imagined you as a diligent Girl Scout, Scully."

"Mulder, that's the Coast Guard motto," she says. 

"There's a joke about harbors in there somewhere," he says, lying on his side next to her so that he can stroke her from breastbone to belly and beyond.

"Please don't try to find it," she says, her hands wandering over him. "There are, ah, better ways you could use your time."

"Better ways to spend my time than trying to come up with pier-based puns while you're naked in bed next to me?" He scoffs. "I believe in extreme possibilities, Scully, but that's a bridge too far."

She groans, and it isn't because he found the right spot. "Mulder, shhh," she says, and tugs at him until he rolls onto her. He eases into the cradle of her hips, holding himself over her. 

"I love you," he says, unable to help himself.

"I love you," she says, smiling at him.

"That wasn't...I wasn't trying to talk you into anything," he says.

"Mulder," she says patiently, "we've got the rest of our lives to deal with your misdirected guilt, but right now, I need you to stop talking and start devoting your considerable intelligence and whatever else to rendering both of us absolutely speechless."

"I can do that," he promises. 

She puts a finger to his lips. He kisses it and then sucks the tip into his mouth.

"Better," she says. 

He braces himself on his knees and one hand and uses the other to stroke his slow way down her body, lingering over her breasts until she's gasping, her back arching so that her cunt rubs against his thigh. He strokes the underside of her breasts, weighs them in his hand, palms her nipples and then pinches them for the change in sensation. They're everything he envisioned and more. She moans, a soft appreciative sound that rises in pitch as he squeezes her breasts. He slides down her body to nuzzle at them, lipping her nipples into his mouth where he can tease them with his tongue. His other hand slips lower, caressing her ribs and her belly, easing between her legs. He cups her mound in his palm, his fingers barely rubbing over the coarse curls. Just enough pressure for her to want more, just enough friction to send need zinging through her body. Her fingers clutch into the muscles of his thigh and his shoulder.

"I'm not going to say this often," she gasps, "but I think we can skip the foreplay tonight."

"What," he teases, "almost four years was enough for you?"

"Maybe I should hold out for five," she suggests, but her fingers are already curling around his cock. "I wouldn't want you to think I was easy."

"Nothing about you is easy," he tells her fondly.

"You might be surprised," she says, and guides him down to her entrance. She uses the latex-clad head of his cock to spread her own slickness over her folds. He groans. 

"I love you," he says fervently, from the bottom of his heart and the bottom of his balls.

"Are you going to say that every time?" 

"Probably," he admits. He's bitten it back enough for a lifetime. 

She smiles. "I can live with that," she says. Her eyes gleam. 

"Now?" he asks, trembling a little with the tension of not plunging into her.

"Please," she says, and guides him in. He sinks into her and her hips shift to accommodate him. She sighs like she's just eaten the best meal of her life. Pure satisfaction. It lights up the pleasure center of his brain and whatever feels victory. Eight million years out of Africa and some part of him is still wild, all grunts and appetite, ready to abandon himself to base instinct at the first sight of her bare skin. He gathers up whatever parts of himself are still Homo sapiens sapiens and breathes out evenly. Her eyes are dreamy. Her hands drag up and down his back. 

"Mulder," she says, and just the way her lips part around his name is so warm and wondrous and full of love that he almost cries. Jesus, he's in deep, and not just inside her.

He starts to move, just gently, thrusting slowly into her and pulling slowly back out again. They're both still damp from the bath, still so warm he's already sweating a little. The scent of lavender mingles with the musky perfume of sex. She's tight around him and everything about her is a miracle. It's hard to keep an even, steady rhythm as he moves; he's always been a zealot when he comes to her, frenzied in his devotion. She feels infinite. He could spend a lifetime exploring her. Every little ripple of her muscles startles him. He can feel himself shivering. He doesn't want to come too fast. He wants this to last. They might have had sex already, but he can feel in his bones that this is the time that counts. This time, the first time after they've pledged themselves to each other, after they've revealed the transparent truths of their parallel pining. It was just fun before, and gratitude, and stress relief. This is the first fuck of forever.

He slows and bends to kiss her, long lingering kisses that leave them both breathless. It isn't the mechanics - he could breathe - but he forgets, when her lips are against his, anything but the sweet jolt of loving desire that overrides even his autonomic nervous system. She licks into his mouth, her tongue thrusting into counterpoint to his hips. They kiss like they've got until the end of time.

When he can't take it anymore, he pulls out of her, letting his lips pave a trail down her body to her cunt. She tastes like sex and latex, but he teases her clit with his tongue until every exhale is a gasp or a moan. She murmurs his name, stroking his hair, and he reaches up to catch her hand. She puts both their hands on her breasts. He strokes her and lets his tongue swirl in lazy circles, easing her away from the edge. 

"You're a goddamn tease, Fox Mulder," she sighs. 

He raises his head and grins up at her from between her thighs. "Just making sure I touch all the bases," he says.

"Head home," she says. "I want to come with you inside me."

"Holy fuck," he says. She isn't pulling any punches anymore. She smirks.

"Please," she says, and it's more of a taunt than a request. He scrambles up, overeager but too goddamn in need of her to care about his cool exterior. They both reach to guide him back into her; they both groan when he slides home. 

"Kiss me," she says, and he does. She licks the taste of herself from his lips and pulls his bottom lip into her mouth, pinning it delicately between her teeth. He thrusts into her, letting the rocking of her hips set the pace. It's faster than before. There's an urgency in her; he can feel it in the thrum of her pulse. 

"I wanted this for so long," she whispers. "I want to remember every second of this." She gasps. "It's a hell of a moment to have déjà vu."

He laughs, startling himself. Of course it would be Scully who'd have visions of their future in her dreams, a sixth sense about the sex they'd eventually have. It feels a little bit like that to him too. His brain stutters trying to reconcile fantasy with reality, but she exceeds his expectations, just like always.

"There will be so much of this to remember," he promises. 

She cups his face with both hands. "Mulder."

"I'm here," he says, thrusting into her like punctuation. He's losing control again. The velvet heat of her cunt is too much for him. Everything's going blurry around the edges, including his sense of self. He's melting into her, she's melting into him, and the laws of physics are bending as the space between them compresses to nothing and they're just two irresistible forces striking sparks on each other's soft places. 

"Will you touch yourself?" he manages to ask, and she wedges her fingers between the harsh ridges of their pelvises without even a wince. He lifts to give her space as she rubs in quick up and down bursts. God, he's close, but he'll be damned if she doesn't come first. He slows down again and she groans and hooks her leg over his hips, drawing him closer.

"Faster," she says, and he obeys, bucking into the slickness of her, harder than before to compensate for his reduced range of movement in the embrace of her thighs. She moans her affirmation and he shivers and barely manages to hold on as pleasure shocks through him. He tries not to look at her, but at the same time, he can't look away: she's flushed and wide-eyed under him, lips parted, rosy nipples firm under his fingers. She's hard for him and hot for him and wet for him and fuck, he wants to make her see stars, so dazzled that for the rest of her life there will be faint afterimages when she blinks, glow-in-the-dark constellations he's stuck to her memories.

"Yes," she says, and he moves even faster, helpless as she draws tighter around him, her thighs shaking as her heel digs into his hamstring. She's still touching her clit, her fingers flicking between them, and he can feel when the shiver starts deep inside her, spreading through her body. She tenses and trembles and arches and he thrusts deeper inside her, spreading her open until their hips lock together. There's a moment when she goes absolutely still, keening in her throat, and then she cries out and comes apart in his arms and he wants to experience every second with her but he can't help toppling over the edge. The thought of Dana Scully's orgasm was always enough to make him come in his fantasies. The feel of Dana Scully's orgasm is impossible to withstand or resist. But it's appropriate: they're seeing stars together.

He collapses against her, barely holding himself up. His ears are ringing with the singing of his blood as it rushes through his veins. After a moment, she twists her fingers through his hair and pulls him close for a kiss, rocking her hips against his. 

"Again?" he asks.

"Mm," she says, and he's not as hard as he was, but that seems to be enough for her. She grinds up against him, panting, and fuck, he wishes he had her refractory period, because watching her get herself off on him is incredible. It only takes a minute or two before she's moaning under him and he feels the quick flutter of her cunt. He rolls off her, holding the condom, because the spirit is willing, but the flesh is deflating fast, all the blood having rushed to his head.

"Ah, fuck," he says, sprawled out on her bed. "Thank you, Evan, for unwittingly enabling all of this."

"Ethan?" she corrects, smirking.

"Ethan," he says. "Sorry, Scully, my brain is melted."

"Don't apologize to me," she says. "I might send him a thank you card myself."

Mulder laughs. "What will you write in it?"

"'Thanks for the best sex of my life'," she says. "And there will be an asterisk that says, '*with Fox Mulder'." 

"That might be a little much," he says. "Anyway, doesn't an invitation to the wedding kind of say that?"

"He's not coming to the wedding," she says with a yawn. "I'll give you an October wedding and a haunted honeymoon, but we're eloping."

"I like it," he says. "You and me and whatever required number of witnesses."

"We can have a reception when we get back," she says. "They can come to that. But not the wedding."

"We've never needed anyone else," he says.

"No," she says softly. "We haven't." She reaches for his hand and squeezes it. He squeezes back and then rolls over, heading to the bathroom to clean himself up. He disposes of the condom in the trash and washes his hands. When he looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, he sees a satisfied man, relaxed and happy. He grins at his expression and finishes his glass of water, abandoned earlier on the side of the sink. He'll bring Scully a fresh glass. Maybe he'll touch the cool glass to her belly, just to watch her experience the sensation. They've got a whole life ahead of them of enjoying each other. Finally he'll get to indulge himself and her. Instead of the Holy Spirit, they've left room between them for the specter of propriety and the nightmares that have escaped their flimsy manila prisons.

He thinks they'll sleep better now.

"It's a grand slam, son," he says to himself, and whistles on his way to the kitchen.


	15. Chapter 15

Jenny won't take elopement for an answer, so Scully relents and lets her help plan the reception. Despite her dull taste in paint colors, Jenny turns out to have exquisite taste when it comes to planning weddings, and she and Scully talk flowers and place settings and the details of the reception dress for hours. She coaxes out all of the details Scully never thought she cared about as Mulder watches, fascinated. In another life Jenny would have made a great interrogator. Maybe even in this one. 

They go to the wedding, of course. The minister is boring and the vows are boilerplate. Mulder slides his thumb smugly under the hem of Scully's dress. She smiles like an angel and pulls him into the garden during the reception so that he can keep the promise his thumb made. But they both cry, just a little. It's not because of Ethan and Jenny, they swear to each other. It's just the idea of weddings, of course. It's the idea that they, one day soon, will be standing up in front of each other and saying their various versions of same old words that somehow still mean something every time.

Eventually, the baby is born, and their time with Ethan and Jenny peters out, except for Scully's occasional wedding planning dates. She dandles the baby on her knee and discusses the merits of a veil versus a fascinator for the reception (the fascinator wins) while Jenny changes out the cabbage leaves in her nursing bra. 

They get married in her mother's living room. Maggie isn't happy about the lack of a Catholic wedding necessarily, but she gives them her blessing as they join hands and promise themselves to each other, forever and ever. At least the priest makes house calls, Mulder thinks. They all sign the document afterwards and Scully's mother serves up cake and coffee. It's all very civilized. Scully glows in a dress she got from the department store. Mulder touches the white rose pinned to the lapel of his new bespoke suit. When everyone's plates are just crumbs and the cups are dregs, they hug Maggie and take their leave. She presses a horseshoe and a bell into Mulder's hands.

"Melissa would have wanted you to have it," she says. Scully cries.

That night in bed, they explore each other slowly, their hunger tempered now by months of indulgence. He spends so long after his first orgasm coaxing gentle climaxes out of her that she reaches down and finds him firm again, and she slides her leg over his hip and takes him in. They make love gazing into each other's eyes, as if each touch is part of a ritual that will keep them safe and whole and happy.

Only afterwards do they realize they forgot the condom. 

The train from DC to Portland, Maine takes twelve hours, give or take. They spend most of it holding hands. Scully pages through the issues of JAMA she's never managed to catch up on. Mulder reads a treatise on alien behavior that someone sent him anonymously, sharing the most entertaining portions aloud with Scully. 

The B&B may or may not be haunted, but it's picturesque as hell. They rent a car and drive into the woods and there it is, white clapboard and black gables spattered with wet leaves that the wind has pasted there. The bed is deep and soft and they spend the weekend hiking, eating, drinking wine by the fireplace, and making love with no barriers between them, holding their hope cupped in their palms like a candle flame in a breeze. 

Scully doesn't get pregnant. It's just as well. They keep going out on cases. They dip in and out of the darkness of their own minds. Krycek reappears, the bad penny forever turning up. That's after the black oil, after the airport in Hong Kong. 

"I should have made him my best man," Mulder muses, when everything's over, because there's nothing to do but whistle in the dark.

"Frohike would have been a better choice," Scully demurs. 

At the reception, Byers gives a lovely toast and Frohike demands to dance with the bride. Langly tries to DJ. No one dances. It's a small party, but Teena Mulder comes down. She kisses Scully's cheek and presses a glass of wine into her hand. "I said the seven blessings," she says. "I always knew it would be you. Fox will know what to do." 

He ducks his head. "Thank you, Mom."

She reaches up and strokes his cheek. "You're a good son, Fox. I think you'll make a good husband."

"He is," Scully says fiercely.

Teena's eyes soften. She nods. They drink the wine and Mulder steps on the glass. "Mazel tov," Teena says, and makes her excuses.

They don't tell anyone about the marriage, not even Skinner. Scully wears her ring on the chain around her neck, next to her cross. It seems safer that way. They do move in together, quietly, submitting separate change of address forms weeks apart. There's some kind of solace in coming to work in separate cars and opening the door of their new apartment to find the other one already waiting in a place that isn't filled with their own ghosts. Mulder keeps his old place too; it's a convenient place to meet up with his informants. 

They fake his death there one day, when Scully is dying of cancer and Mulder is at the end of his rope. He comes back from the land of the lost with a chip for the back of her neck. Bill steps in front of him, a snarl on his face, but Maggie lays a hand on her son's arm.

"That's her husband," she says calmly, and weathers the hurricane of Bill's fury and confusion while Mulder coaxes Scully to sit up, kissing her dry cheek and whispering to her about miracles. She has the little bottle in one hand and her rosary in the other. 

"You can't let go," he says. "I know I said 'til death do us part, but Scully, that can't be now." He kneels at her bedside and sobs against her thigh while she strokes his hair. 

"I'll do it," she says, and he can hear that there isn't really hope in her voice, but she wants to spare him the agony of never having tried. 

She gets better. They go to the doctor to discuss the ova from the facility Mulder found. The specialist thinks there's hope. It takes a few months, but eventually the test comes back positive. "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Scully," the specialist says, and neither of them correct her. The conspiracy they've been unraveling may be so much lint and chaff, but this is real. They put their hands together on her belly.

When they find Emily, the adoption agency is only too happy to let them fill out the paperwork. A nice young married couple, steady jobs, maybe a little on the dangerous side, but at least they've got good insurance and a government pension, right? And it can't be so risky, if Agent Scully is pregnant and still going in to the office. They have to tell Skinner after that. He doesn't look particularly surprised. They fly their daughter across the country and settle, dazed and dazzled, into some kind of routine. 

At least their new place has a bedroom for her, and one for the baby on the way. They burn through a lot of their sick days, but Emily begins to grow and thrive and Scully's belly rounds. Mulder helps her with her reading at night; Scully coaxes her through math. It works. They're a family. When they bring home little William, Emily is delighted. 

Cassandra Spender disappears from a bridge in Pennsylvania. Her son batters down the door to the basement, but they don't know much more than he does. Scully was home with Emily when the itching began, not in her neck but in her brain, but it was bathtime for Emily, and there were stories to be read, and then Mulder to hold her in the dark, and she never left DC. 

Diana Fowley strides back into their lives, bearing news of a psychic child. She studies the ring on Scully's hand (no point in secrets anymore) and their family photos on the desk. "Congratulations," she says in a deliberately even voice. The door closes behind her with a click. She doesn't come back.

They go to Texas while Maggie watches the kids. Somehow they end up in Antarctica, but somehow they get back with all their fingers and toes and a few more insights into the vast global conspiracy that used to be the lodestar of their lives. They lose the X-Files for a little while, but they have other things that are important, like where Emily's other shoe is and whether there are any clean bottles to store breastmilk in and why Mulder's mother sends such expensive presents.

(Scully never goes to Africa. Mulder never goes to Oregon. Despite it all, they have their health and strength.)

They're happy. They still argue. One Christmas Eve, Mulder convinces Scully to leave the kids at her mother's and takes her ghosthunting for old time's sake. One strange day through a series of strange coincidences, Scully meets her ex at a hospital.

"All the choices we've made," she says later, blurry after a glass of wine, "they've all led to this moment."

"I'd make the same ones," he says. 

"Me too," she says, taking his hand. "You know, the kids are in bed."

"Are you propositioning me, Agent Scully?" he asks, mocking outrage.

"It's my turn," she says, and leads him into their bedroom, and he thinks they just might live happily ever after after all.


End file.
